


When bullets soar like shooting stars

by SolarSquare



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Blackmail, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fake AH Crew AU, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Gang Violence, Gangs, Insomnia, M/M, Multi, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Violence, War, okay courfeyrac and combeferre are more, tagging is the fucking worst, tags will be added as i go on
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-12
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-05-21 13:07:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 75,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14915948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SolarSquare/pseuds/SolarSquare
Summary: Grantaire; sniper of the Patron-Minette, survivor  of war, once aspiring artist. A man known for several things. Without the titles, just a guy with a stupid mistake and a lot of regret. And a talent for sniping. Which happens to be exactly what Les Amis de l'ABC need.When Grantaire is forced to infiltrate Les Amis de l'ABC, one of the most notorious and secretive gangs in Paris, he can't do anything to refuse. Without a choice, he does as he's told and tries to remember the days when he still had a life, a future, a home.But maybe home is elsewhere.





	1. Faded pages of my past

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first fic planned to have multiple chapters. The idea came from my great sister, who always has amazing ideas for AU's. This is basically a Fake AH Crew story starring Les Amis instead of the guys from over at Achievement Hunter because I really like the concept and thought Les Amis would be perfect. 
> 
> Just a little warning that this fic will contain violence (obviously) and trauma from war, including insomnia, nightmares and other symptoms of PTSD. Though there are some references to real places and events in war, this story is not based on things that actually happened.  
> That's all for now. Hope you enjoy!

"Hey, Grantaire! Care for a drink maybe?" A hand landed on his shoulder with a heavy thud, and Grantaire had to hide how startled he was by the sudden noise and touch. He turned around to the man to face him. The man seemed friendly enough, with a bottle in his hand, but he still declined: "Not now. Boss wants to see me in a minute." 

The man looked disappointed, and Grantaire suspected that he hadn't expected a _no_ to his request. He slung his arm around Grantaire's shoulder and pleaded: "C'mon R, a sip o' booze won't hurt ya. Boss won't kill ya for it." Grantaire chuckled lightly, but it was a mirthless laugh.  _Oh you know he might if he's in a bad mood_ . He didn't tell this to this man, though, because the mere fact that he addressed Grantaire this casually while Grantaire himself had no idea who the other was reminded him of his vulnerable position within the Patron-Minette. He slid away from the arm around his shoulders and pushed the heavy body off while shaking his head. "Any other day I'd say yes, but for now, you should find another partner." 

The man urged again and again, even going as far as to put the bottle to Grantaire's lips and tilt it. It had been nice whisky, Grantaire bet, but he quickly pushed the bottle away and after that, the man gave up and went to find someone else to join him in his drinking games. Grantaire leaned back against the wall, shot a glance at his watch and sighed: it was only a quarter past eight and Montparnasse had asked him to come by at eight thirty. 

Grantaire didn't know what to do in the fifteen minutes to come. He'd been standing against the wall for a good twenty minutes already, his eyes on fixed on the bar in hopes of getting some entertainment out of its costumers once they got their heads drizzled. It hadn't worked at all. He was on edge, with a pounding heart and a feeling of dread in his stomach. Usually _he_ would be at the bar, pouring cheap wine down his throat until his head got that slow spin and blurry feeling he loved so much. But now, he couldn't imagine that he'd ever want a drink again. 

The leader of the Patron-Minette wanted to speak with him. For Grantaire, that could only mean trouble. He checked his watch again and two minutes had passed. Soon he would have to head to the office. The countdown was agonizing, but he'd gladly wait for hours rather than going to see Montparnasse. He had no choice, though, but to wait for a few minutes. So he waited.

When he checked the time again, his watch read twenty-five. The time had come. Grantaire pushed himself off the wall and started walking away from the bar to the office. He could hear his own pulse drumming. A vague memory came to mind from when he was a young child and had to ask a stranger to call his parents because he'd lost them in the crowd. He remembered being as scared and nervous as he was now. But the difference was that the stranger had been friendly. Which was the last word that came to mind at the mention of Montparnasse

Every step closer to his destination heightened this fear. His hands were sweaty by the time he rounded the corner and saw the heavy door at the end of the corridor, behind which the leader of Patron-Minette was waiting for him. Grantaire stood still to take a moment to calm himself down for the sake of his relaxed guise -which was his only protection against the Patron-Minette and its members-, but the adrenaline was already working and, when he reached the door and knocked on it he noticed that he was shaking. 

From the other side of the door, a response came: "Who is it?"

"Grantaire!" He brushed his hands over his jeans in an attempt to wipe the sweat off of them while he waited for Patron-Minette's leader to acknowledge him. And though it was hopeless, he silently prayed to be ignored.

"Ah, come in. The door is open." Grantaire obeyed and turned the doorknob. The entrance opened with a soft click and he stepped inside. 

Nothing had changed since the last time he had been here, about three months ago. There were still bookcases lining the left and right wall of the room, the carpet was the same, the lamp hanging from the ceiling still shone with the same white light. And there was still a corkboard with pictures of people pricked on it, although the people were different from the last time. New victims. And there, at the other side of the room, was the big wooden desk with one empty chair in front of it, and another chair seated behind it.  Then, his eyes found the gaze of Montparnasse.

He sat deep in his chair, dressed in a classy black suit and with a stack of papers in his hands. And the small smile on his lips when he saw Grantaire standing in his doorway only made him more terrifying. Grantaire hesitantly walked toward him, eyeing him. He had no guards to either side of him, contrary to the last time they'd seen each other. But that was only a small detail. Montparnasse didn't need anyone to protect him from Grantaire. With a gun, Grantaire was deadly, but unarmed he stood no chance against the Boss. 

When he came to a halt, he didn't wait for permission to take his seat and sat himself down to hide the trembles that ran over his legs. Montparnasse watched him sceptically but made no mention of it. Instead, he folded his hands on his desk after pushing the stack of papers aside and leaned forward a bit. With a smirk, he started talking. "Well hello, Grantaire. It's been a while since our last chat. Have you gotten a bit comfortable among my employees in the meantime?"

"Hard to say," Grantaire replied, "I scarcely remember anything that happens at the bar." He was being mocked, he knew, so he would respond accordingly. Or he tried. Part of him wished that he'd drunk a glass of something strong. It made him a bit more fearless and wittier. But he would have to get through this without alcohol. "You serve good drinks at your little business."

"I know," Montparnasse smiled at him, and his smile was cold as ice, "my own are even better, but I haven't asked you here to chit-chat and drink. I just wanted to get a conversation going." He leaned back in his chair and placed his arms on the cushions to the sides. He wasn't smiling anymore and had a sharp gaze on Grantaire. "You are here for an assignment, and a rather grand one, may I say."  Grantaire carefully considered the words.  _A rather grand one, that can't be good_. His usual tasks were planned by Gueulemer, or another one of Montparnasse's puppets. That probably meant that Montparnasse had plans for him that were not in his favour. 

Montparnasse had to have seen his thought progress, because he chuckled lightly to himself: "It's nothing extremely dangerous, as long as you're careful," he told Grantaire. 

"See, anyone could do it who can go by unnoticed." He winked at Grantaire at the word 'unnoticed', and it disturbed Grantaire more that he thought was normal. Montparnasse was admittedly a charming man, but Grantaire wasn't fooled by the superficial charm. He'd seen a lot of death at the hands of Montparnasse. A fancy suit and charming smile could hide the lust for blood to the untrained eye. Grantaire knew the devil inside. He swallowed and straightened his shoulders a bit to appear bigger and less nervous. His hands were sweating again "What is it, then? And why do you need me to do this?" 

In response, Montparnasse grabbed a piece of paper and handed it to Grantaire. He took it and glanced over it: it was an article torn out of a newspaper. Grantaire read the title. It was written in capital letters.  _Robbery at the BNP Paribas bank last night. Three people shot dead, eight injured_. Beneath it was a picture of the cash register, but Grantaire's eyes were drawn to a small symbol left on the desk, carved in: the three letters. ABC. And Grantaire didn't need to read the article to understand who were responsible for the heist. He handed the article back to Montparnasse, who put it away. 

"You know the sign, right? Whom it belongs to?" 

Grantaire nodded. "Les Amis de l'ABC." He'd seen a few more articles like this. "The mysterious gang, untraceable, hidden from public. Only perform heists on the biggest businesses." He recited what he knew as if he were taking a school exam. "They tend to use non-violent ways to get what they want, but kill people nevertheless. They have few to no known connections or alliances, and all information about them is uncertain." He looked at Montparnasse.''I know about them. What do they have to do with me?" 

"Nothing yet, but that's why you're here."Montparnasse pointed at the corkboard and Grantaire followed his finger. He stared at the pictures and waited to be told what he was looking at. 

"Those faces on the corkboard are the faces of people who we are trying to eliminate. Top priorities, you could say. And the only faces we're missing are those of the members of Les Amis, because we don't know what they look like. But they have to be removed from the picture nonetheless. They have been robbing the biggest banks of Paris, and they've also been prancing around in our territory. They are an immediate threat to us as an organisation. They rob us of places to find capital" He folded his hands together again and looked at Grantaire. ''But recently, there's been rumours that they are looking for a new member. A sniper, to be precise."

  Grantaire's blood ran cold.

"You know what I want you to do, right?"

Grantaire knew it perfectly well, but he couldn't respond to Montparnasse. He could only look down at the table in front of him and stare at the article.  _Three people shot dead._  

"You are going to offer them your services, gain their trust and lure their leaders out of their shell. When you succeed, you'll kill them."

Grantaire's voice came back to him, but his head was still over flooded with white noise. This was bad. "No." He weakly protested. Les Amis were well-organized, confidential, and all data about them was scarce. And there was only one way to achieve such a strong privacy. But Grantaire knew that he'd have to make Montparnasse's plan appear as useless and fruitless. So when he spoke again, he put on a considering voice, as if he was considering all the possible outcomes out of desire to make the plan work. "That'll never work. They won't fall for that."  _They will kill me if they find out_. "I'll never be able to gain their trust. No one knows anything about them, so why would they suddenly drop their guard around a new member?" He frantically ran a hand through his hair with his shaking hands. But Montparnasse paid no mind to his words. He glared at Grantaire, not with a mocking smile but with cold and dark eyes. "That's your problem. This is your task and you will do as I say!" He raised his voice and a heavy threat crept into it.

Grantaire was afraid of Montparnasse, but he couldn't think rationally and only saw images of him being tortured to death after being discovered. "No! I won't do it!" He screamed. He stood up from his chair abruptly, and balled his hands into fists. "This is insane!-''

"You don't have a choice, Grantaire!" Montparnasse's voice boomed and in the blink of an eye he had Grantaire by the collar and yanked him forward to lean over the desk. Grantaire's bravado disappeared like melting snow.  "You still seem to think that I am not serious, Grantaire, but I am your boss. If I give you an order, you obey. If I tell you to kill someone, you do it. If I tell you to infiltrate Les Amis, you fucking do it, regardless the risks,"Montparnasse hissed at him. He then shoved him back and Grantaire stumbled from the impact before regaining his balance. By then, Montparnasse was already sitting again. He was angry, and Grantaire knew just how dangerous it was to get Montparnasse angry. Nothing he'd say would change the outcome. Montparnasse continued.

"If you don't do exactly as I say, I will give the police all your data, all your information. They will know where to find you and your family and they will catch you and you will rot away in prison for the rest of your life." 

"I don't need you to remind me," Grantaire spat out, refusing to sit down again, "it's all that keeps me from murdering you." 

"I just have to say the word and you are number one on their wanted-list, Grantaire," Montparnasse sneered, "I am all that keeps you out of their hands. Try my patience, and you will regret it." He looked at Grantaire one last time before standing up and turning his back to him. "You have a week to contact them. I don't care how you do it, as long as it works. You can use whatever you need, if it's not too expensive." He said other things, but Grantaire couldn't focus. He could only stare at Montparnasse in white hot fury. He could easily jump him, close his hands around that slender neck, make him groan in agony and let him die along with Grantaire's information. He could slam him into the wall over and over again, could kill him. He wanted to kill him. So badly.

"-Understood?" Grantaire broke his chain of thoughts and refocused on what was being said. "Understood." He gritted the word out. 

"Good. You are dismissed." Montparnasse's tone brooked no argument. And Grantaire didn't want to start one. He stood no chance against Montparnasse. He could never outmatch him.  He walked away in defeat, but still found it in himself to slam the door close behind him, for whatever that was worth.  He was so afraid of Montparnasse. And Grantaire hated knowing that Montparnasse knew everything about him, all the bad parts. And he would sell him out at any given moment. He controlled him. Anything he wanted, Grantaire would do it. He'd hoped that Montparnasse had forgotten about him in the months that he'd been with the Patron-Minette. He was forced to aid in robberies, deliveries. He even was told to assassinate people before. But this was different. This was going to kill him. Infiltrating was dangerous, and Les Amis were notoriously secret. A gang with basically no information about them. And there he was, forced to sneak in, because he was a sniper and they needed one. Grantaire sighed. Luck had never been on his side. 

 _Better keep Montparnasse on my side for now_ , he thought grimly.  He walked through the halls of the Patron-Minette's quarters. To the bar, where he spent most of his time. There were still some people sitting around, but most people had already gone to one of the dance clubs nearby, where there were strippers and more drinks and other people to meet. Grantaire couldn't be happier; he couldn't stand them. He hated them all.

He ordered a bunch of shots and a cheap bottle of wine and as the barman starting filling the glasses, the man next to him whistled at him. "Well, if it isn't Grantaire again. Drinking the barman poor." He scooted over to Grantaire and picked up a shot of something yellow. Grantaire didn't protest when he downed it, but ignored him as best as he could. He shot a half smile at him and took a shot from the bar too.  That was all he was in the Patron-Minette; the heavy drinker, the drunk sniper, the only sniper at that. Or at least the only good one. No one ever wondered why he was with the gang. And that was exactly how Grantaire wanted it. He wanted to disappear from the earth. But today, he was denied this escape. 

The wine felt good down his throat when he finished the bottle. The man next to him laughed at that. As Grantaire ordered another bottle, the man asked turned sideways to look at him, leaning his head in his hand: "I heard you had a talk with the Boss." He reached for another shot with his other hand as he was talking, but Grantaire swatted it away before taking the shot himself. Only after he'd emptied the small glass did he reply. "What about it?'' he asked coldly. He didn't like it when people tried to ask him about his personal stuff. The man seemed to notice his discomfort, because suddenly he was grinning like a wolf. "Well, what did he want from you?'' The barman was feverishly washing and drying used glasses, but Grantaire could see that he was listening attentively. He tightened his grip around the bottle. "He had a job for me, that's all."

"A sniper job?"

 _Mind your fucking business._ "Yeah.'' Grantaire answered harshly. He hoped that his tone would somehow convince this man to stop bothering him. He just wanted to have a drink to calm his nerves. 

"Then why are you so uptight? You get those all the time. Besides, usually you don't get orders from Montparnasse personally," the man insisted. He turned to the barman: "a beer would be nice." The man looked startled at being addressed. He immediately started filling a glass with beer from the tap at the end of the bar. While he was away, the man scooted closer to Grantaire so that they were touching shoulders and started talking to him with a lower volume. "What is the connection between you and Montparnasse?" 

Grantaire eyed him, now not even hiding his irritation, and didn't answer. He picked up a small shot glass and gulped it down. When he didn't respond, the man continued talking: "You're a mystery. One moment we didn't have a sniper, and suddenly Montparnasse returned with you. You're always drunk during heists, but the Boss never tells you off. You've been here for four months, and no one knows the first thing about you.''  Grantaire wasn't sober, to be sure, but not drunk enough to be talked into telling all his secrets. He laughed dryly and found that the alcohol was doing its work. It made him looser. And he desperately needed to stay calm now, or he would have another person blackmailing him.

He raised his glass to the man mockingly. "There's nothing to know about me, my dude. I drink and I shoot, that's all you need know." He glanced down at the shot glasses in front of him; most were empty. He would down them as quickly as he could and then he would go away. As much as he needed a drink right now to guide him into sleep tonight, he couldn't stay in the company of this man. He was one of those copycat-Montparnasses: always trying to pry information out of him for his own gain. It was frightening to know that there were people all around him who were trying to find out his secrets, but when he was drunk he could deal with them.  He emphasized his statement with another shot. Just four more. He could easily do this, dowse them one by one. Casually.

The barman arrived with a beer for the man next to Grantaire. He took it, and the barman hurried away to pretend to not eavesdrop. The man sipped his drink and Grantaire did the same, avoiding eye contact.  "Rumour has it that you and Montparnasse were in the army together," he casually said. 

The words had been relaxed and casual, but the message was clear. Grantaire felt a sharp wave of fear gulf through his body. He quickly picked up a shot to avoid having to respond. But even with the haze of alcohol in his mind, he knew that this was bad.

  "Are those rumours true? Is that why you are such a good sniper?" 

 _How does he know?_ The only thought on Grantaire's mind at the moment was that one question, repeating itself again and again on loop. He felt the first edges of panic enter his reasoning as he desperately tried to get rid of the influence of all his drinks. Montparnasse had sworn to keep it between them as long as Grantaire did as he was told. Then why were there rumours? He knew the man was waiting for a response. "No, we met when Montparnasse returned from war. I was just barman at a bar." He had to improvise, which was a lot harder when drunk. And he could tell that this man didn't believe him.

"Then how did he find out that you're a sniper. And where did you learn to use a sniper rifle?"

He had to go. This was an interrogation, and he couldn't risk it. One mistake could be the end of him. He set his wine down and stood up. The man looked at him suspiciously. He was onto something and knew it. Grantaire could only try to prevent him from finding out more.  "I learned it from living in this fucked-up world," he responded. Then he walked away. He sort of expected to be followed, grabbed by the wrist. But when that didn't happen, he looked over his shoulder one last time to see the barman and the man leaned towards each other, talking in hushed voices.  He started walking faster. Through corridors and past rooms until he found the small door leading to the outside world.

He exited and walked out normally, but started running as soon as the entrance of the club and hideout of the Patron-Minette were out of sight. He had to get away from that place. He was fidgeting, looking over his shoulder all the time, unclenching the muscles in his arms only to find them clenched again in a few minutes. He tried to stop his heart from beating, but it kept slamming against his chest.  How much did the people know about him over at Patron-Minette? 

 _He was just bluffing_ , Grantaire told himself. When Montparnasse had gone off to war and returned with a sniper, it was logical to assume that they'd met at the battle-front. Yet, the truth was that he disliked the idea of people coming to this conclusion. He already had to run away from the police, to have a gang chase him would be an entirely different kind of stressful. But then Grantaire remembered that he soon would attempt to play spy at a gang which he could only assume tracked and killed all its enemies. He felt hopelessly desperate. Things really hadn't been going well the past year. 

After fifteen minutes of walking and running he'd left the bars behind him and was making his way through the dodgy ends of Paris. His apartment, as cheap as it was, was still half an hour away. There had been a time when Grantaire had lived close to the centre and the _Académie des beaux arts_ , where he'd hoped to study. A flare of passion drifted up inside him. He'd always tried his best to make his paintings worthwhile. He had built up a grand portfolio and was going to ask for permission to take an exam.  And then he had suddenly gone to war. 

He walked past small alleys, along small shops and smoking groups and houses that looked shabbier at every corner he turned. And as he walked here, he scolded himself for ever volunteering to go fight. He had been so stupid. All his chances of a good future thrown away because of some deluded inspiration to 'make a change'. Now he was walking in the dirt, hiding himself from society. And he hadn't made any change but a bad one. Now people were driving past him in their expensive cars and were looking down on him, and he had to walk to his shitty apartment knowing that he couldn't go anywhere where Montparnasse wouldn't find him. And at that moment, Grantaire briefly considered jumping in front of their cars to dirty them with his own sad self. Yet he didn't; what good would it do him?

And so he walked in silence until he reached the tumbling building he called home. The poorest building in the entire street, inhabited by drug criminals and such. And there he was, among people who'd hit rock bottom just like him. The stairs creaked so loudly when he walked them that he heard a door upstairs fly open and had a "keep that fucking noise down, there's more people living here!" thrown at him. Grantaire didn't respond. He wanted nothing to do with his neighbours. Half of them were addicted to something. And most of them not only to alcohol like Grantaire. 

His own door opened with a swing after he'd unlocked it. He stepped in and felt a sense of peace wash over him. His own apartment. Finally he was alone. He walked to his kitchen and opened the cupboard to fetch a bottle of vodka. He'd had a lot of alcohol already, but today had been extremely stressful: the waiting to talk with Montparnasse, the talk with Montparnasse, a random guy fishing for information about him and Montparnasse and the war in Syria. All in all, his body was shaking with adrenaline and liquor was always the best comfort he found in life. It was cheap, but it did the job so much better now that he was alone. After that, he sat on the edge of his bed and just took a moment to stop his world from spinning.

His room wasn't much of a view. There was only a kitchen, which was a few cupboards and a microwave with a fridge, a table with a chair and a bed. And a bathroom, thank God. He also had a shelf with a few books arranged on it, most of them about art. In the corner of his room were some canvasses. He stared at them with a heavy feeling in his heart. He hadn't painted something beautiful in a long time. He would do it once he could find inspiration again. But it was hard. He still made paintings, but it was so difficult to paint something so beautiful only to know that he would never belong in that world again. Grantaire wanted to look away from the half-finished scenes depicted on canvas, but instead he just kept looking at them. He longed for the time he would go back to the Arc de Triomphe to finish the painting he'd made. He would one day. When he'd killed the leader of Les Amis.  _I don't want to kill more people_.

Grantaire tore his gaze away from the paintings, and instead reached under his bed. Soon his hands touched cold metal, strapped to the frame of his bed with duct tape. He tore it away without looking and picked up the gun from under the bed. His sniper rifle. A WA 2000.  He gently placed it in his lap as if it were his child, and studied the curve of the barrel. It was a beautiful rifle. He still remembered when he had just bought it, how much it had cost him and how careful he had been to make sure he wouldn't get caught buying firearms. The ecstasy coursing through him every time he would fire it, knowing he was shooting with one of the rarest sniper rifles in the world. He was good with a lot of guns, big and small, but he loved this one most. He could carry it, yet it still had good range.  He reached under the bed again and fumbled around until he felt the plastic of a ziplock bag. He pulled it out and opened it. The bullets piled in his lap. He loaded his gun with the bullets he still had, and made a mental note to ask Montparnasse for more ammo. Montparnasse never questioned it. He was relatively easy in that regard.

Grantaire pulled the hammer back and softly lay the gun down underneath his bed. Now that he was going to confront Les Amis de l'ABC, he figured it would be wise to make sure that he was at least armed if they came for him to his apartment. He was paranoid, and he knew this, but that paranoia had saved him a few times. 

In a haze, he undressed and put his clothes in his closet. He brushed his teeth, though more out of obligation than hygiene, and crawled into his bed. His head was buzzing and every movement was slow, but that was only good. Grantaire was hoping that he was drunk enough to sleep through the night without waking up from the terrors that came in the dark. 

Montparnasse cutting him to pieces. Policemen and militants chasing him as he ran off to a dead end. Him running around with his rifle among all the people who'd died thanks to him. Claquesous dragging him away into an alley where no one could ever find him again. Him shooting people running out of a burning building that his unit had set on fire, killing the last survivors.

These, and many other familiar memories and scenarios, plagued him night after night. And though he desperately prayed for a dreamless night, he knew that he would relive them again. And again. Until the dreams would come to life. And send him to sleep forever.

 _Praying is useless anyway_ , he thought as he already started drifting away from conciousness, _there is no God, or he must hate me._


	2. I've never lit a match with intent to start a fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter! It's been a while. By the way thanks to everyone who read this and left kudos! You guys are amazing! Just one quick warning for PTSd at the beginning of the chapter and a description of war situation. Nothing graphic but just a heads up.   
> * at one point, I use the word sans-abris. Just in case you don't know, sans-abri means homeless person.

The gun felt heavy in his hands.

Why was it so heavy? He looked at the weapon is his hands. It was his usual, an FR F2. The one he used all the time. Grantaire carefully placed it on the ground beneath him to check it out a little better. He checked whether it was loaded, whether there wasn't sand or something else stuck in the barrel, whether anything looked weird and would explain the feeling of uneasiness he got from the rifle. 

Suddenly, there was static next to him coming from a walkie-talkie, followed by a hushed voice: "Grantaire! What are you doing? Pick up your gun and set the target. We need to be quick, or else they will notice me. Focus!" 

That was Montparnasse, urging him to not loose his focus. Grantaire felt a relief upon hearing the voice of his friend: he was not alone here, in the middle of enemy territory. Then cleared his head for a moment; he had to stay sharp. He picked up his gun and went back to his previous position flat on his chest, hidden in the rubble of a destroyed building. He checked the scope and carefully moved the dot in the middle to land on a small square far away from him. 

He held the gun with one hand to make sure it stayed in the general direction. With his other hand he pressed the  button on the walkie talkie. "I got my aim on it. Are you in position?" As he said this, he tried to look around the small part of Deir ez-Zor in front of him, or what was left of it. A lot of the buildings had suffered from attacks. Only the centre was still intact. That was where Montparnasse was, along with the targets. He couldn't see Montparnasse, but from here he could see small figures standing near tanks. Those were the targets of Montparnasse. But he tried to not get distracted looking at them. Because, as Montparnasse had worded it, "the men are my targets, your only target is the bomb" 

"I'm ready. I can see all the targets. Start the countdown, R." 

Grantaire pressed the button in one more time: "Firing in thirty seconds." It wasn't a lot of time, but it would be enough. He quickly put his other hand on the gun and pulled the hammer back before sliding his finger on the trigger. With sharp focus, he moved the dot of his spectroscope on the small black square in the distance. His finger tightened around the trigger and he closed his one eye. 

_15, 16, 17..._

Still, something felt wrong. It was almost like a deja vu, as if he knew that something wasn't right. Yet, he couldn't find any errors in the list he'd made for himself to check. His gun was working, Montparnasse was in position and the set-up was just as they'd planned it. 

Something was wrong.

_22, 23, 24..._

Grantaire ignored the feelings of warning from his head. There was no time. It was just anxiety. He shook the feeling off and counted down the last few seconds.

_25, 26, 27..._

Everything was going according to plan.

_28..._

He was just nervous.

_29..._

No time to hesitate anymore. Grantaire gripped his rifle tight, ready to loose the bullet.

_30!_

He pulled the trigger back and heard the shot ring through the air. The rifle recoiled into his shoulder, but he hardly felt it after years. He felt a moment of relief. It had gone accordingly. Now Montparnasse would take care of the rest. 

_No, something doesn't add up..._

The next moment, there was fire everywhere.

Grantaire's eyes shot open and he sucked in a breath through his teeth. He looked around hastily to find out where exactly he was. Despite his body yelling at him to get up, he was paralysed and couldn't find it in himself to move. He could feel the blankets wrapped around his posture. So he was in his bedroom. He blinked a few times to get his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the night, but he didn't need to see his room for confirmation. It made perfect sense, he had been dreaming again. Another nightmare.

Even though he knew that he was in his apartment and therefore relatively safe, he still was breathing quickly and too shocked to move.  _Sleep paralysis_ , he told himself,  _that's what it's called_. He had researched it a bit, and its symptoms and side effects. Apparently it gave the feeling of an 'evil prescence' in the room. 

It was only a hallucination. Montparnasse wasn't standing in his room. But he couldn't turn around to check. Both physically and mentally speaking, he couldn't bring himself to it. Besides, the pressing weight on his chest was far more important now. He took a shuddering breath and focused entirely on trying to stop his heavy breathing and turn it into a slower and steadier streak. This went quite well. As long as he had his focus away from the frightening bits, he could easily work his way through the aftermath of bad sleep.

As he got his breath under control again, his control over his muscles came back too, one by one. First, he could move his head and tilt it to look into his room. His eyes had gotten adjusted, and now he could see for himself that the room was really empty. No Montparnasse. Then, he tried to move his arms. He lifted his right arm up from underneath his blanket and tried moving his fingers. When that all worked, he tested his legs. They were still quite stiff, but when he slid them out of his bed and put his weight on them, they didn't give out. Grantaire was happy about this, but as soon as he stood up his head spun and he had to sit back down on the edge of his bed. When the buzzing in his head had gone, he stood up again, and now he could keep himself up. 

His throat felt as if someone had shoved sandpaper down it. He had to cough, and the sound that he made sounded sick and raspy. He put his hand before his mouth and coughed in it. With his other hand, he traced the wall for the light switch. 

The light was dim in his room. It would get brighter soon, and Grantaire was happy that his eyes would be given a little more time to get adjust to the sudden light after his sleep. He closed his eyes to block out the light for a few seconds, but behind his eyelids, there was fire burning. Bright as the sun, spreading along rubble, casting destruction everywhere.

It had been another one of his nightmares. The one in which he would have to relive the moment that destroyed him, and him being subconsciously aware that there was something wrong. He'd dreamed that one multiple times. And it was always the same pattern, always the same actions. And that was what was worse about it: he always made the same mistake. He always ended up pulling the trigger. 

Soon he'd picked a glass from the cupboard and was filling it with water. When it was full, he drank the entire glass empty in a second. He refilled it and drank feverishly. His throat became soothed, and with that the rest of him. Slowly, the light became stronger and the aftermath of his nightmare-induced dreaming subsided and left him a shaking, mess. 

Grantaire wiped the sweat off of his forehead. His curls were drenched. He put the glass down and gripped the sink until his knuckles turned white. That was all that kept him from filling his glass with something stronger. He didn't want to be more hungover in the morning. 

 _Speaking of..._ He turned to his nightstand and picked up his watch. With his tired eyes and brain, it took some time to figure out what the arms of the clock were saying, but when he could read the time it read 2:34 a.m. He sighed. Morning wouldn't arrive anytime soon, and neither would sleep. He looked around his room and saw the canvasses in the corner. He hesitated, as he wasn't exactly in the mood, but he took a canvas anyway and gathered his brushes and paint. Painting did relax him when he couldn't sleep. 

He drew long strokes with many shades of paint, unfocused, and stroke after stroke made the whole less understandable, rather than an image forming as he went along. All that was on his mind was Syria, war, violence, and Montparnasse. He tried to paint the night sky above Paris, but the stars looked like bullets. He still didn't give up, though, and just forgot time as he painted whatever was on his mind. Slowly, the peaceful stars in the black night made place for raging fires blown from guns. He didn't stop for a few hours, but with every stroke his hands shook and his head started aching as drunkenness turned into a hangover. When his head finally forced him to stop painting, he looked at what he'd made. He cringed.

It was far too real. He couldn't stand his own art. It was dark and violent, and because he had started as a beautiful starry night it looked romanticised. The fire in the night looked beautiful, the city of Paris underneath had turned into ruins of a town, but still looked mysterious, and he was disgusted by that. He gripped his brush with unconscious force as he stared at it. This wasn't something he wanted to see. 

Yet, he couldn't stop looking at it. With the thumping in his head, it almost looked like a scene from a movie. It came alive. As much as he hated it, he couldn't bring himself to destroy it. 

With one long, elegant stroke in white paint, he signed it with an  _R_ , the signature he used on all his paintings. Then, he gave his piece a title.  _A starry fight_. 

 _Good old Van Gogh must be spinning in his grave_ , he thought. He looked at it one last time before placing it in the corner along with the others, and after that he crawled back into bed. Sleep came quicker than he expected and soon he woke in the morning with his head exploding.

*******

Grantaire slipped the small five euro bill in the cardboard cup of the woman hunched up at the Sacre Coeur, who looked up at him and muttered a silent 'merci' before fishing it out of the small thing. Grantaire nodded at her and walked on. He looked over his shoulder and saw her folding his bill open, and then her eyes shot up at him. They made eye contact, and the woman nodded at him. Grantaire smiled at her: she'd read his message: _Les Amis are looking for a sniper, make sure the news is spread that they meet him Wednesday at the Rue des Batignolles at one a.m. Success means money._

Grantaire had done the same thing with six other beggars on the streets of France's capital. In Paris, the sans-abris were the biggest network, where news spread like a wildfire while staying away from the ears of the higher classes. Grantaire used the help of the homeless all the time, as it was his only way of quickly messaging others. He didn't have a phone, so he had resorted to a medium as big as social media; the streets of Paris. 

It was Sunday then, and all he could do was wait for Wednesday to arrive. 

In the meantime, he painted simple images of all that he could think of, and when he wasn't inspired or motivated, which was most of the time, he would just wander the streets of Paris and look for small jobs to earn him some money. And despite his contempt for the gang, he still visited Patron-Minette daily, to update Montparnasse on his progress. Soon, Wednesday had come, and Montparnasse wished to speak with him. Grantaire didn't go to Patron-Minette until Claquesous drove by him as he wandered around and forced him to enter the car, after which he delivered him to Montparnasse. 

As Grantaire sat down, Montparnasse started talking. "You're hard to track, Grantaire, so I would be happy if you came to me without my men having to find you and bring you here." Claquesous hummed in agreement, and Grantaire huffed. 

"Well, it's hard to keep in touch without a mobile phone." He answered. "Unfortunately, I can't get one, because war records say I'm dead, and then the police would find out that something's not right."

"You could get a fake ID," Montparnasse said, "it's safer and a lot more convenient. I could get you one, if you'd like." He said it with such friendliness in his voice. As if he was offering Grantaire something that would make his life better. 

"I don't want you to get me anything," Grantaire sneered. 

Montparnasse laughed and folded his arms over his desk. "Grantaire, I think you should begin to understand that you belong to me, and that it's time to bury the hatchet," he explained airily. "You are part of the Patron-Minette, just as much as Claquesous here." He gestured to the man next to him. Grantaire's bodyguard and Montparnasse's puppet. Grantaire hated him almost as much as Montparnasse. 

"Claquesous is voluntarily involved in your crime. We're not comparable," He answered. He was not a member of Patron-Minette; he was a prisoner. Claquesous didn't say anything, but he did react to the accusation. His eyes squinted at Grantaire, as a silent threat. Grantaire stared him down until Montparnasse broke the silence.

"It doesn't matter. You should focus on the other part of my advice. You are mine. Accept it." He watched Grantaire and when said person didn't talk back, he leaned back. "Well, enough of that now. I asked you here to discuss a few things about your initiation in Les Amis." Grantaire didn't want to think about that. In a few hours, he would meet the members of a far-left political gang who would probably kill him somewhere in these upcoming months. 

"You said that you have made sure that they will meet you tonight. Are you sure that your message reached them?"

"Yes," Grantaire answered. 

"Good. Now, we can assume that they will keep an eye on you for a while before they trust you enough, so don't try to contact us or visit Patron-Minette. Instead, collect as much information as you can, and try to find out about their leaders. When you have the chance to go freely, leave your information in your apartment, and my men will pick it up."

It wasn't that Grantaire fooled himself into thinking that his address was secret, but to hear Montparnasse explain to him that people like Claquesous and Babet would simply break into his apartment filled him with anxiety. He thought about the gun under his bed, and told himself that he really should be more careful with it. He made a mental note to himself that he would have to hide it somewhere safe, so that Patron-Minette wouldn't find out about his gun, which happened to be one of the rarest sniper rifles in the world. 

He nodded curtly to show Montparnasse that he understood what was being told to him: he was exposed wherever he went, even in his own home. 

"Now, there is one very important rule, Grantaire," Montparnasse leaned forward and gestured to Claquesous: "If he catches you anywhere near us, our hiding place or our members, you will be brought to me, and if you try to oppose me, I will expose you." 

Grantaire kept quiet. Montparnasse looked at him, and when he only received silence as an answer, he smiled a cold smile. "You understand, I presume." He turned to Claquesous: "Lead him out."

Claquesous walked towards Grantaire and seized him by the arm. Grantaire allowed it and let himself be dragged out. Montparnasse's eyes were burning in his back, and when he cast a glance behind, Montparnasse waved at him in mock innocence. Then, the door closed behind him. 

He turned his head away from the door and wasn't thinking about anything but his blind hatred for the leader in the room. As a result, the fist coming at him took him by surprise and he couldn't duck before a harsh blow came down on his face. His first reflex was to instantly aim for the stomach, but then his senses returned to him. Hitting Claquesous would only cause him more trouble. So instead he cupped his cheek gently to test the pain on his cheekbone. In a moment, Claquesous had yanked him forward so that they stood eye to eye, and his fingers painfully pushing in the flesh of Grantaire's arms. 

"Don't accuse me of crime in my presence. Montparnasse will keep me from delivering you to the police, but he can't protect you when he's not here. You are in no position to talk of crime," Claquesous growled at him, and Grantaire braced himself for another blow to his face, or his stomach, as he pulled his arm in an attempt to escape Claquesous' hold: "Let me go, you son of a bitch. I don't care about your fragile feelings." Despite this answer, no hits came, and Claquesous only sneered at him: "You want another bruise on your pretty face? Montparnasse may be able handle your big mouth, but not everyone can. The moment Montparnasse spills your little secret, which will inevadibly happen sooner or later, I will beat you bloody before the police can." 

Grantaire now yanked himself loose. He wasn't intimidated by Claquesous: he was physically intimidating, but nothing like Montparnasse, who could freeze people to the bone with his gaze. Claquesous was just a puppy following his boss, copying him as best as he could. Just like Babet, Gueulemer and all the other people in Patron-Minette. He scoffed at the man: "You really think you can, Claquesous?" His lips curled into a grin. "So far you've only ever fought me when I couldn't defend myself. Give me a chance of fair combat and I'll tear your arms off your torso." Then, he stormed away from Claquesous, not checking whether he was being followed. _I'll kill him one day_ , he thought to himself, and _Montparnasse, Babet, Gueulemer..._ He would, once he wasn't blackmailed anymore.

It was early evening when he left the Patron-Minette's Head Quarters, which meant that he still had hours until he had to meet Les Amis. He bought some food from a local supermarket which he knew was the cheapest shop on his way home. All the while, he noticed people's gazes on the spot on his face where Claquesous had punched it. From the throbbing that was coming from it, he could conclude that it was already bruising. _Great_. That would make him that much more suspicious when Les Amis would decide whether he could be trusted or not.  

His neighbours didn't ask him why he looked as if he had just returned from a bar fight. So he didn't explain. He just wanted to be alone for a few moments, before he would go back to the days of being monitored every second of the day, like the first few weeks with Montparnasse. He went to his bathroom to check himself in the mirror. 

It wasn't as bad as it felt, but it was big and still clear on his face. He stared at it and touched it carefully. It stung, but it seemed nothing serious. Claquesous did hit him more often, and sometimes he would really do damage. Grantaire thought back to one time, when he had shot a window of a building during a heist. Alarms had gone off, and the police had caught two people of Patron-Minette. Montparnasse wasn't the one who punished him; he had Claquesous to take care of that. At the end of that night, Grantaire's arm had been broken, along with a rib. 

And there were also times when Claquesous hit him without orders from Montparnasse; it wasn't as if anyone cared. Montparnasse knew what was going on between them, but he didn't care. When Grantaire was too beaten up, Montparnasse would confront Claquesous or Babet, and tell them to be less violent, but he never told them to stop. 

He stared through the mirror, off into the distance. His thoughts drifted off. When he refocused on his face, a few words from that evening recured to him: Y _ou want another bruise on your pretty face?_ The words almost made Grantaire laugh. He was the least attractive person he knew. He couldn't remember anytime someone had called him 'pretty' unironically. Claquesous knew that too. Grantaire wondered what he wanted to achieve by this quote: mock him, threaten him? 

 _Claquesous and his idiocy don't matter_ , Grantaire told himself. He walked out of the bathroom to the kitchen. He still had a few hours to eat dinner, put some ice on his cheekbone and meet further preparations. He decided that his cheek was most important. Luckily he was prepared. He opened the freezer case above the fridge and pulled out a bag filled with ice. It was always a good idea to have something lying around to cool wounds, whether they were burns from hot water or injuries inflicted upon him by the Patron-Minette. He not too gently pressed the plastic against his cheek and hissed at the cold on his hot skin. He waited for ten minutes, then put the ice away so he could prepare his dinner. He fished the package out of his grocery bag -he'd chosen lasagna, because the taste of endless instant noodles and salads with chicken made him nauseous- and tossed it in the microwave. He didn't care much about the food. He had better things to do.

The doors of his closet opened without a sound, and Grantaire tried to stay silent too, as he carefully pushed his hanging clothes away to reveal the back wall of his closet. He took a deep breath, and out of pure instinct he looked over his shoulder to see to it that his door was locked and chained, and then sat on his knees and moved his torso into his closet. He stuck his head through the clothes and pushed a few stray shoes aside. Then, he could see what he was looking for: an old pair of trainers. He took them out, untied the laces and pushed the shoes wide open. He reached in and his touch felt cold metal. 

He pulled the knife out carefully to avoid cutting himself with it. The glimmer of the blade shone a thousand times brighter than the lamp in his own apartment. He studied the sharp edge and glided his finger over it. Sharp as ever. He always made sure to keep them sharp. 

The sniper rifle made him deadly, but Grantaire wasn't unfamiliar with knives either. He knew how to swing a knife, and he had a decent throwing arm. Good enough to hit people in the back when he didn't have a gun for that. He slid the knife into his left boot, precisely in the small cut in the fabric made for this purpose. He pushed it in until the hilt was only peaking out minimally. He proceeded to open the other shoe of the pair and fished out a slightly smaller, but equally sharp knife. This one, he tucked in his right boot. He wasn't risking it. Les Amis de l'ABC were dangerous, but the element of surprise was strong. And Grantaire was well-practised.  

His microwave beeped behind him, and a shock went through him. He jerked up to look behind him and already had a hand near his boot, ready for attack. When it dawned on him that the source of the noise was the fucking microwave, he cursed under his breath at it. He quickly put the shoes back in the closet and closed the door before he went to retrieve his dinner. Then, with a glass of beer next to him, he began to eat. 

After that, the hours crept on slowly. Grantaire tried to busy himself with cleaning his apartment, doing the dishes, checking his sniper rifle and even cooling his face again, but soon he had no other activities and could only wait until it was time. This was devastating for his nerves, and when he finally found the time decent enough to leave he'd already been walking circles in his apartment for 45 minutes. He put on his coat and headed out. The walk to the street he'd chosen was ordinary as ever. Every person he met on the street was a potential threat to him, though. He couldn't afford any witnesses, for his own sake. And Grantaire didn't even want to think about killing innocent people because they just happened to see him talking to a suspicious person. Luckily, as he neared his destination, the crowd shrank, and when he reached the street, there were hardly any people.

Grantaire hid himself in an alley and propped himself against a wall. He could be approached any moment now.

A person walked towards him, following the street. Grantaire carefully studied them: it was a woman, about his age, dressed in simple clothing. Was she one of Les Amis? Grantaire held his breath as she got closer. 

When she was a meter or so away, she returned his gaze and sceptically looked at him. Grantaire could only stare back at her. She came closer, and his heart was slamming.  _Am I supposed to talk to her?_

Before he could, she walked past him and hurried away, leaving him standing there. Grantaire watched her walk away, waiting for a sign of recognition, but she never turned to look back. He went back into the alley. She clearly was just a passer-by. Not whom he was meeting tonight. 

And this happened with the next person who walked by. And the next. And as the time went on and it the night became later, Grantaire was starting to worry that his message hadn't reached the group. It couldn't be, he told himself. The homeless network always made sure that news spread, and when he'd asked some of the people he'd given his money to, they'd told him that everyone was talking about it. They could be lying, of course, but somehow Grantaire knew that that was not true. 

Yet, no one approached him, talked to him. Grantaire kept standing there for quite some time, hoping that they were late, but would still come. It was getting colder, and Grantaire started losing his patience. He came out of the alley and looked around in the street, checked the rooftops and found nothing. Annoyed, he checked his watch; it was 1: 37, almost forty minutes late. He huffed in annoyance. "Fucking hell," he cursed. Montparnasse would not be happy with this. How was he going to explain to him that he had failed to meet with Les Amis, because they apparently weren't in need of a sniper after all. Or maybe Montparnasse had just been fooled. Whatever the reason, it wouldn't be enough for Montparnasse, and Grantaire would be blamed. He ran a finger over his bruised cheek. He would probably get more of those tomorrow. Maybe he should still wait until two? 

He shook his head to himself. He had to face it: no one was coming. He'd failed. He was in trouble, like always. Montparnasse would be angry. The mere thought made him shiver involuntarily. 

He stalked away, but kept looking behind in the hopes of finding someone hidden in the shadows. When he was at the corner of the street, he turned around one last time: an empty street was looking back at him. He cursed and felt the first signs of nausea overcome him. Montparnasse.

 _He's going to expose me, he's going to hurt me_. Grantaire's brain panicked and he shakily walked back to his apartment. Montparnasse had wanted a great chance to eliminate his biggest rivals, and now that chance had gone to waste. He fiddled with his hands in his pockets. What had he done wrong?

Maybe this was just some sick joke from God to just see how much he could ruin Grantaire's life. Just how far Grantaire's limits stretched. To have him stand around in the cold for nothing, and reward him for his patience with the fury of Montparnasse.

 _There is no God, you idiot_ , he told himself as he put one foot in front of the other,  _this is just life throwing shit at you again_. Small wonder he still had his hopes up in these kinds of scenario's. When was the last time things had really worked out for him anyway. 

By now, the streets were mostly empty, and the shops were closed. Shame, because if there was anything Grantaire longed for now it was a cigarette and something with more alcohol in it than flavour. His walk to his miserable home made him feel hopeless, and when he finally returned after what felt like an hours walk, he wanted nothing but drink himself senseless and lie down. In one stride, he was at his cupboard and pulled out the bottle of vodka he'd started on yesterday night. He drank straight from the bottle and the taste wasn't good, but he still took as much as he could take in in one sip. He set it down afterwards and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. Maybe he could forget about Montparnasse if he drank enough.

He brought the bottle with him to his bed and placed it on his nightstand. He would just go to sleep and hope for a good night, he supposed. Then, for no good reason, he reached under his bed and pulled his rifle out. He checked if the hammer was pulled back, more out of habit than curiosity, and stared at it. 

What if he just brought it along and put a hole in Montparnasse's head? 

It wouldn't work, Montparnasse would see it coming, and would expose him.

He couldn't do anything. He couldn't kill Montparnasse, couldn't free himself. Hell, he couldn't even properly contact people. Grantaire rested with his elbows on his knees and pulled his hair with an iron grip. He was helpless, and useless. Emotional from the vodka, he felt tears in the corners of his eyes. He furiously wiped them away. Crying wouldn't solve it. 

A sharp knock rang through the room.

Grantaire immediately lifted his head and snatched his gun from the bed.

Another knock. He hadn't misheard. Someone was knocking on his door, in the middle of the night. Warily, with gun in hand, he approached the door. 

Another hard knock echoed in the room, and Grantaire put his hand on the doorknob. He softly put his rifle on the floor, but made sure it was within reach, in case he needed it. The chain rattled as he took it from off the door. Then, he pushed the knob down and pushed the door open.

Outside were two men Grantaire didn't recognise. He felt suspicion creep up on his shoulders. Two men standing outside his apartment, he should be worried. But before his could reach for his gun, a smile spread on the face of one of the men as he bowed mockingly: 

"A good evening, sir. You must be the gunman we're looking for." He gestured to the man next to him: "He will be your driver tonight. The car is parked right outside." He was beaming at Grantaire, who was unsure of what to do. An arm was extended to him.

"Shall we go?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. Time to start with the actual story. See you soon!


	3. take the gamble, roll the dice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey new chapter! We're finally getting to it. I'm so grateful for everyone who read it and left kudos and comments, and I also want to thank everyone who left kudos and comments on my other E/R fic, which is nearing 100 kudos, in case you've read that too. It warms my cold little heart to see people take the time and effort to read this piece of trash and leave kudos, so thank you so much. The only thing I have to say about this chapter is that I'm having a hard time with Paris and its layout. I have no clue where everything is in Paris, so yeah sorry about that. 
> 
> That's pretty much it.

"Shall we go?" 

Grantaire knew he had to say something, but the couple had taken him by surprise. He couldn't think of anything to say back to the men on his doorstep. The silence stretched out as Grantaire's wits abandoned him entirely. He could only stare at them with a baffled look on his face. In the end, the other man, who hadn't spoken before, turned to him with a grin. "Or were you just randomly standing around at the meeting point with our potential sniper?"

Finally, Grantaire could force out a response. "No, I was waiting for someone who never came, only to find them at my doorstep an hour after the designated time." He answered. "I was standing there for a goddamn hour! Why didn't you just walk up to me?" 

The left one shot him an apologetic smile. "Policy. We don't want to be jumped, so we waited for you to leave to make sure that you wouldn't try to bait us. Trustworthy people are hard to come by. I suppose you would know, when you have a firearm ready for answering the door." Grantaire blinked, and then followed his gaze to the rifle next to him. He lifted his head again to look back to the man. "You could put it that way, I suppose." He chuckled: "I guess I'm not allowed to take it with me?"

"Correct!", the other guy exclaimed, "phones are also prohibited for now. If there's anything you want to take along right now, show it to us first, or you might risk losing it. We can go back later for clothes and such." 

 _They sound like receptionists_ , Grantaire thought. As if he was told instructions on an air plane. Were these two the diplomats of Les Amis? They sounded as if they've said these things before. They also didn't look like the kind of people to be part of a gang. Both looked healthy and sober, clad much more classily than Grantaire himself. He was used to being the 'baggy' one wherever he went, but still, the presence of these two made him feel conscious about his old jeans and 'I love Paris' jumper. He looked more homeless than the beggars in the street. 

"Right, things. Well, I honestly don't have that much." He dryly said, running a hand through his hair. The man on the left scoffed at him. Grantaire raised his eyebrows at him. "Problem?" 

"Well, come on, man. Wait, what's your name again?"

"Grantaire," he said, "and I've never told you before."

"Aha, you go by surname too?" the man said it quite excitedly, seemingly already having forgotten the topic of the conversation. "That already makes you a better candidate than the others." The man next to him huffed out a laugh and nudged his friend in the side. "Courf, a lot of people use their surname. Stop getting excited over it." He cast a glance at Grantaire. "He is a bit stupid, I'm afraid you'll get used to it soon enough. Because, unlike he implies, there are no other candidates. You are the only person to respond to our application, so you're hired. If you pass the test, of course." 

"Hello! I am not stupid," the other man said before Grantaire could comment on how grateful he was to be here and start his list of people he wanted to thank for this great opportunity. "I had higher grades than you, mind you." 

"Try law and I'll guarantee you that you wouldn't even have half my grades," the other man jabbed back at 'Courf'. Grantaire listened to their bickering, awkwardly standing in his own doorway, unsure of what to do. 

Meanwhile, one thought crossed his mind several times: these two were, or had been, students. They were the right age, and they were talking about 'law', presumably in reference to the study. 

Students were responsible for the biggest and most succesful robberies in Paris? Or were these two just exceptions? He wasn't one to judge people because of their age. Montparnasse was also very young. Still, it couldn't be that a gang of prestige like theirs was run by young-adults. 

"Grantaire, it was?"

The voice pulled Grantaire out of his cascade of thoughts and he watched Courf. "Yes?"

The guy cleared his throat and started speaking again. "Well, Grantaire, what I was trying to say before I got interrupted,"- he shot the man next to him a glare in mock anger, and the guy chuckled at that- "is that you  _must_ have something to take along with you. It might be that you are gonna get very bored, so something to do would be a good idea."

The other guy interjected. "Do you have any hobbies? Some books to read?"

Grantaire shrugged. "I paint sometimes." He racked his brains, trying to remember what else he used to do as hobbies. "I box and I've had dancing lessons. I had piano lessons when I was still a child." He put his hand on his head and looked to his ceiling. He was drawing a blank, and damn if it wasn't the saddest thing in the world that he literally barely had any hobbies he still practised. 

But apparently, it was enough for the two of Les Amis, because the one who had told him how stupid Courf was, broke into a broad smile at the mention of boxing: "You box? Are you good?" 

Grantaire felt himself go hot. He forced a polite smile on his face. "I used to be okay at it. I've done it for some time."  _And I have quite some military training to boot_. "I haven't done much with it recently, though. Only caused a few bar fights." That wasn't true, but he would never forget the amazing feeling of adrenaline pumping through him when he put his fist to a man's face. Fighting was so much more fun when it wasn't to the death.

The man's grin only widened. "Where have you been all my life? Finally someone who knows how to live. The others drink themselves senseless, but no one ever joins me in a bar fight." 

At that, the other man protested. "I join you every now and then when you are curled up in a ball and surrounded by ten men because you stole their bottles or glasses and then hit them when they asked to give them back." 

"Yeah, and you were so much help. You lasted two minutes."

Courf rolled his eyes, and then his eyes went back to Grantaire, curious: "You also said painting. Do you have any?" 

Grantaire vaguely gestured to the corner of canvasses, not really all that excited about sharing his work with others. Many of his paintings had become very personal, as his coping mechanism. He still painted sceneries, but those were easy to loose in the swirl of depression and war he put on canvas. 

Two people rushed past him into his apartment without as much as a simple 'if you don't mind'. Grantaire turned towards them checking out his paintings in the corner. "Has no one ever taught you to knock?"

"We did," came the reply from the boxing man, who was currently holding one of his newer paintings of a burning cigarette on a terrace table in the evening, inspired by a scene he'd made at a restaurant when he'd flicked his burned out cigarette on the nearest table and had the pair shout at him until the staff demanded him to pick it up. 

His friend laughed at that as he looked over the other's shoulder to also watch the cigarette painting. "We most certainly did. Because we couldn't follow you inside, we had to check all doors for you. We knocked on all the doors in this flat. It took us quite a while to find your apartment. I hope you are on good terms with your neighbours." He then proceeded to say: "These are amazing. Do you do art as a job?" 

Grantaire was still processing what he'd said about knocking on other people's doors. So he only responded to that part, ignoring the comment about his art. "My neighbours are all addicted to something and you wake them up in the middle of the night to check whether they are me. Do you have any idea what that will do to me? They'll ransack my apartment." His voice pitched up at the end of his sentence, and it sounded panicked rather than annoyed as he had intended.

The other two let out a laugh. Grantaire scoffed and crossed his arms. "Care to tell me your names? Or whatever name you go by?" 

The one whom the other had called Courf placed his painting down again and extended his hand to Grantaire: "I'm Courfeyrac and that is Bahorel." He gestured with his head. "We're two members of Les Amis de l'ABC. He likes fighting and I like watching him loose."

"I see," Grantaire quickly responded, and he took Courfeyrac's hand and shook it. He didn't want to have the two start a discussion again. He stuffed his hands in his pockets after having shaken Bahorel's hand as well. "Should we go? It's late, and my neighbours will complain of the noise. And then I'll be kicked out by my landlady. And believe me, it's impossible to find a room as cheap and good as this one."

Courfeyrac smiled friendly: "Whatever you say. So, do you want to take some painting tools with you? In case you need something to do in your spare time?"

They were so casual, so young. He couldn't believe that these two were members, no, _representatives_ of Les Amis. Did they purposefully send two idiotic students to him to make him drop his guard? Or was this what the gang consisted of? No matter the way he looked at it, these two were the very last persons he'd expected to meet tonight. With their childish bickering and casual way of conversation with Grantaire and their knocking on doors. It made him wonder how exactly Les Amis de l'ABC had not been exposed the  _moment_ these two became involved. 

"Spare time?" 

"Yeah, obviously. Do you expect to be busy every waking moment? There's a lot of time where we just sit around. And in that case, you'll need something to do. Maybe painting?"

Grantaire just shrugged. He really hadn't thought of spare time activities. Or he had not really expected to have said spare time. He cast a glance at his paintings, and he figured that some of them should be finished. And they had a point when they said that he would need something to do...

"No, I'll get them later. Let's just go for now," he suggested. Courfeyrac seemed disappointed when he said this, but agreed nonetheless. The other guy, whose name he had forgotten already, clapped him on his shoulder: "I get it. I'm tired too. The sooner we're back, the better." 

"Besides, if you have any spare time, we'll just see who's the better boxer," he said with a wink. Grantaire smiled at that. They both seemed very nice. 

Still, he was going to be careful. He knew how much appearance could deceive. And Courfeyrac and the other guy-  _what was his name again?_ \- seemed to have the same thing in mind. When Grantaire remembered his rifle and his plans to hide it from Montparnasse, and asked them some time to put it away, they allowed this, but gave him five minutes. And as soon as he'd closed the door of his apartment they both started walking on either side of him, effectively making him walk between them where he couldn't run away easily. Grantaire could see the vague contours of a gun in Courfeyrac's coat. They were just as cautious as he was. And Grantaire didn't doubt that Courfeyrac would shoot him if he did anything suspicious. _At least I still have two knives in my boots, he thought._  

It wasn't long until they reached the last step of the stairs and then they were standing outside the flat. Grantaire's eyes scanned the surrounding area and his eyes fell on a car. It was a Landcruiser. Grantaire knew that it belonged to his two guests. Most people in these areas didn't have cars, or very cheap ones.  

Courfeyrac opened the backdoor for him and gestured him to get in. Grantaire rolled his eyes at him before entering the car obediently. Courfeyrac took his seat in the passenger seat, and the other guy sat himself in front of the steer. He used his mirror to stare at Grantaire and meet his gaze: "Should we blindfold him?" he asked Courfeyrac while staring at Grantaire.

"Nah, I think it's fine," Courfeyrac answered. "Grantaire probably won't find the way after seeing it only once." He buckled his seatbelt and checked to make sure Grantaire was strapped in as well, and then said: "Bahorel, why don't you show him just how you drive? I bet he'll never even get a chance to memorise the way to our place." 

 _Oh yeah, Bahorel_ , Grantaire thought. He'd probably forget that one again soon. 

Bahorel looked back at Grantaire with a daring smile. "Oh, you will be perplexed. Buckle up!" Grantaire looked at Courfeyrac uncertainly and was met with an equally daring grin. "How fast are you gonna drive? We're in Paris." 

"Courf," Bahorel said with a daring tone, "make sure that he doesn't throw up." He gripped the steering wheel and Grantaire could feel the car starting to vibrate as he pushed the gas pedal down. And suddenly, the car lurched forward, Grantaire was caught by his seat belt and the engine roared as Bahorel sped up. 

Grantaire's breath hitched when Bahorel made a sharp turn left and turned in a small street. He swore he could feel some of the wheels lift from the road. Bahorel, however, seemed completely calm as he sped past houses. Courfeyrac as well. He was slumped back in his seat and then he turned to face Grantaire. 

"Quite a ride, isn't it?" 

Grantaire nodded. He watched Bahorel calmly navigate through the narrow street. He wondered where they were going, but everything flashed by too quickly. So instead he looked at Courfeyrac and Bahorel.

"Don't worry," Courfeyrac assured him, "Bahorel is an excellent driver. He's only blown up about twelve cars during his career."

The man behind the steel grinned and then Grantaire had two pairs of eyes on him (and zero on the road, by his calculations). Bahorel was just holding the steering wheel with one hand. "That's still at least ten less than you." He deadpanned. And though Grantaire didn't get it, Courfeyrac smiled at that. "Well, it's my job to blow things up, so it doesn't count." He turned to Grantaire. "I do the bombs."

"And bombs aren't the only thing he blows," Bahorel interrupted loudly. His face was turned to the road again, but Grantaire could hear him smiling. He chuckled. 

"I'll just ignore that comment," Courfeyrac continued. "You see, Bahorel is just jealous because he ends up in a fight whenever he tries to hook up."

"Okay, rude!" Bahorel yelled. "You want me to tell R all about your love life?"

"Wait a minute," Grantaire said. "R?"

"Obviously."

"You get it, right?" Courfeyrac chimed in, seemingly happy to change the subject. "It's because your name sounds-"

"I get it. I'm not stupid." Grantaire said. He knew the nickname. But it wasn't the nickname itself that caught him off guard. It was because the last time someone had called him that was months ago. That was when he still considered Montparnasse a friend, when he still called him 'Parnasse' and Montparnasse called him 'R'. 

He forced a smile out and heard himself say: "Nice nickname. Very well thought out."

"Thanks, we like coming up with nicknames. Pity we don't get many new members."

"What? You just have a good basis then, right?" Grantaire asked. He hoped that his attempt to ask for information wasn't glaringly obvious. He really didn't want to pry too much, but Montparnasse wanted information. Though Grantaire doubted that Bahorel and Courfeyrac were the ones who could provide him with a lot of information.

Courfeyrac nodded. "We're pretty solid, I guess. We don't need new members that often. Only if there's a specific talent we're missing." He winked at Grantaire. "And that's why you're sitting in this car right now."

"Speaking of which," Bahorel added, "your way of contacting is probably the best I've seen thus far. Did it take a lot of effort to make sure your application reached us?"

Grantaire shrugged. "Only a couple of euros, and a bit of knowledge of who will do the job best." Courfeyrac laughed at that and commented on how easily he did that. Grantaire thanked him for it, but still was disappointed; his first attempt at fishing for data had passed him by. All that he knew was that Les Amis were cautious of who they hired, but that was one of the few things already known. He knew that this wasn't going to be easy. 

In the front, Bahorel and Courfeyrac were talking about something concerning the homeless network. Grantaire was fine with being left out of the conversation for a moment. He was on his way to Les Amis. So far, it was going according to plan. Maybe he'd even meet the leader when they arrived. The thought made his heart race. The article Montparnasse had shown him a few days ago came to mind again. Three people killed for a heist. Just a reminder that Les Amis, even the two seemingly easy-going and cheerful people in this car with him, were very serious in their crime. Courfeyrac with his bombs, Bahorel with his driving. 

"Say, Grantaire, how did you actually learn to shoot?"

Grantaire turned his focus back to Bahorel. He had expected this question, and already had an answer ready: "I used to go hunting with my father when I was young. He'd always use these really old-fashioned guns, which only made it harder to hit birds and other things in motion. But then I joined an actual club, and got a normal gun rather than a carabine. As for the sniping aspect, I guess I just kind of picked it up from having to shoot very small animals sometimes." 

Bahorel hummed in response. "I also learned driving from my mom. She used to drive to empty roads and then she'd let me. When I finally was old enough to start with driving lessons I was pretty much done already."

After a while of driving and small talk, the car slowed down, and Bahorel navigated it into a smaller alley. By then, Grantaire had completely lost track of where they were. He saw a bunch of small cafés lined up next to each other, but they didn't look as if they were for tourists. He was far away from the city centre. He wanted to etch details into his memory, just to have something to inform Montparnasse about. 

"I still can't drive," he told Bahorel and Courfeyrac, just to say something. "I got started but stopped early."

"Why?" 

"Money problems, among other things," he improvised. That was a believable thing to say. The real reason was because he was called for war, but that was not a good thing to tell. Courfeyrac made a sound in agreement and started talking about his money problems with college and other things. Meanwhile, Bahorel drove the car into a seemingly abandoned parking lot. 

 _Why are they so friendly_? Grantaire couldn't wrap his head around it. They told him so much about themselves, up to the point where they were sharing childhood memories. It was unnerving to have people of their calibre trust him like this.

But as Bahorel drove them into the darkness of the building, away from the commotion on the streets and the Parisians walking and driving through the city, he realised that his fate had been decided the moment he'd opened his flat door. Before, he'd thought that their jokes about him already being hired were purely to make fun of him being the only applicant. 

But now, he understood that he was hired because he had no choice anymore: he'd seen their faces, and that alone made him involved. At this point, refusal would be betrayal, and that would cost him his life. He had become a part of Les Amis, even if he would've had thoughts about abandoning this plan. Chills went through him. He hoped Courfeyrac and Bahorel didn't see.

The lights were almost all broken, and in the middle of the night Grantaire couldn't see more that the white outlines of parking spots. Bahorel had slowed down. They were there. Grantaire knew that he was about to be asked to step out. As soon as the car was parked, the fun times with Courfeyrac and Bahorel would probably end, and he would have to cry his devotion for Les Amis de l'ABC and their cause.

Courfeyrac turned to Grantaire, with a serious look in his eyes. And Grantaire was pulled back into reality. He wasn't here to have fun conversations.

"Alright, we're here. Now, you're about to enter our quarters and meet the members." He pointed over his shoulder to a door. "Right now, you can still go away, if you changed your mind. We won't track you. When you go through that door, you're involved." He leaned forward and lightly touched Grantaire on the shoulder. And he did so with a softness Grantaire hadn't ever felt from Claquesous. He felt protected, despite being in more danger than he could probably guess. 

"It's not that we want to scare you off, but are you sure? Are you sure you want to be acquainted to us? Are you willing to kill people for the greater good, as we see it?" 

Grantaire wanted to say no, and leave all this behind him. He should be terrified, as he had been only an hour or so ago. Yet, he felt safer than he'd felt among anyone in Patron-Minette. The soft touch was far too soft for a dangerous person. It was deceiving him. He knew he had no choice anymore. There was no way back. The only way was the one in front of him.

He nodded, and words were tumbling out of his mouth: "I am completely aware of what it means, and I'm willing to do what needs to be done." _To kill your leader and satisfy Montparnasse's lust for vengeance_. He shifted his feet to feel the sharp profile of his knives in his boots. He would do anything,  _anything_ to be safe from Montparnasse.

"Okay." That was the only answer he got, and Bahorel had parked the car. Courfeyrac stepped out and opened the door for Grantaire. As Grantaire stepped out he performed another mocking bow and announced: "Welcome, monsieur, to the head quarters of Les Amis de l'abaissés." 

Grantaire looked around in the darkness, and saw multiple vehicles parked around the Land Cruiser that had taken him here. Most were cars, and some scooters. This was definitely Bahorel's domain. The way he could navigate in the darkness made that clear already. He turned to Courfeyrac and marched towards the door. Courfeyrac followed him closely, and Bahorel next to him. They were casually talking to each other. Grantaire didn't pick up what they were talking about. His own heart beat drowned out the sounds around him. He was readying himself for action, he felt it. His muscles stiffening, his blood rushing, his breathing getting deeper. As much as he tried to keep his mind away from his old mistrust of people, his body couldn't be tricked into behaving normally. 

 _It's a normal reaction_ , he told himself. _It's normal to be nervous now_. It wasn't suspicious. He forced himself to reach for the knob and tried the door. When it opened effortlessly, he was surprised. There was security and all, but the door wasn't locked. It was careless to leave a door open for anyone who wanted to march in.   _Weird_ , he thought, but he stepped in nonetheless and didn't question it any more. Maybe it had been opened for his arrival.

All there was, was a staircase, going only up. Courfeyrac moved to walk beside him. "I think this would be a good time to let me walk in front. Or Bahorel, of course." He added with a sideway glance to Bahorel, who was still behind Grantaire. He walked up the stairs, and Grantaire followed. He had Bahorel inches away from him. Grantaire could almost feel his breath on his neck. He stared at Courfeyrac's back with a stale concentration to distract himself from the huffs of breath coming behind him. Courfeyrac's back was completely exposed to him. He wouldn't even have the chance to turn around if Grantaire were to fish his knife out of his boot, wouldn't have time to see the knife before it would bury itself in his skin.

Grantaire's mind quickly darkened. Not that he was planning on attacking Courfeyrac. At least not now, with Bahorel in his rear. But that didn't stop him from imagining it. He had a strong appel du vide, an urge to make this drastic decision, to take such a heavy risk. He wouldn't do it, and he knew that. It happened all the time. A primal urge to destroy himself or others, to make choices with heavy impact. He was a romantic after all, it seemed. 

But he didn't do anything, and allowed Courfeyrac as he guided him. Both Bahorel and Courfeyrac remained strangely quiet. Grantaire had only known them for roughly 45 minutes, but this already felt strange to him. Things were getting serious. Every step was heavier. 

Then, Courfeyrac came to a halt, in front of a closed door.

 _This is it_ , Grantaire thought. At last the time had come to meet Les Amis. He prepared himself, straightened his shoulders, balled his hands into fists, tried to play off a confident air, not a scared one. 

Courfeyrac opened the door, and what Grantaire saw was completely against all expectations.

On the other side of the door, there was a bar, and some tables and chairs. There were a few people sitting here and there, but most seats were empty. The entire place was lacking in any personnel, except for one woman at the bar, and she didn't look as if she was serving her customers tonight. Instead, she was talking to a man sitting at the bar. He laughed at something she said, and she ran a hand through his brown hair before kissing him lightly on the lips. They didn't see Grantaire staring, but he looked away even then. To avoid his gaze lingering on the couple, he decided to look around the other room: it only now dawned on him that all people in this café were about his age. 

Closest to the bar sat three men. All three were looking at a bunch of papers sprawled out on the small round table. One of them, with straight blonde hair, was pointing to one of the sheets, and from the constantly shift of his focus to either the paper or the man next to him, Grantaire figured he was explaining something. The man who seemed to be educated nodded and pointed at the paper from time to time, but was constantly interrupted by the other man at the table. The table was littered with bottles and all three spoke rapidly and slurred. 

They were drunk, or tipsy at least, yet the blond man still tried to keep talking with a serious voice. Even though he broke out in laughter every time the other man at the table -the one who clearly didn't have much interest for whatever he was telling- interrupted him by some sort of witty remark. Grantaire felt relief at seeing people drunk while being relatively okay himself. He'd only had one or two sips of vodka and a beer for dinner. For him, that was quite extraordinary. But then, he only drank a lot when he could get it for free, and that was at the bar over at Patron-Minette. 

In stark contrast to the trio near the bar was the duo sitting at a table near stairs leading to what Grantaire assumed were rooms, calmly discussing something. One of them had his back turned to him, and he seemed to give a passionate speech to his companion, who smiled and commented every now and then. All Grantaire could see was a mob of blonde curls. Only his were perfectly in place and looked in order, rather than the wild mess of hair Grantaire had gotten used to over time.

And then there was one other girl in the room apart from the one at the bar. She was talking loudly into a phone in a dialect that Grantaire had difficulty understanding. From the brief conversation he heard, she was talking to a friend and trying to convince them to come to her, as "everyone here is being boring and-".

Then her eyes fell upon Grantaire and the others, and she quickly dismissed the person she was phoning: "Cosette, I'll call you back later. I think our mysterious sniper has arrived." 

Her words rang through the air, and suddenly all conversation in the small room dropped. Eyes turned to him, and the man who'd had his back to him turned around in his seat to see what the girl had announced.

And Grantaire's heart skipped a beat. When he locked eyes with the mysterious blonde-haired man, he couldn't believe his eyes. The man was the most beautiful person he'd ever seen. 

He stared at him, unable to tear his gaze away from his face, his burning eyes that shone bright like fire with passion. In return, this angelic figure also kept staring back at him with a slightly uncertain or even questioning look. 

 _Apollo_ , Grantaire thought to himself. It was the first name that came to his mind when seeing this man's perfection. _Just like the god of the sun. How can someone be so fucking hot?_

He quickly came back to his senses and became increasingly aware of the awkward silence in the bar as he and Apollo were exchanging gazes and ignoring everyone else in the bar. Grantaire didn't want to be the first one to avert his gaze, though; that would be admitting defeat. He had only just arrived at this bar and wasn't about to let himself be shied into acting like a scared teenager. Still, as neither turned his gaze away, Grantaire felt himself growing anxious from this strange exchange. 

In the end, Courfeyrac saved him the embarrassment. He slung his arm around Grantaire's shoulder and loudly announced: 

"May I present to you, ladies and gentlemen"- he winked at the two girls when saying the word 'ladies'-"our newest member, friend and sniper. His name is Grantaire, but we're allowed to address him as R. He is what I believe to be a very wise choice and good addition to us and our little society." He finished with a cheeky grin, and Grantaire smiled the anxiety away. 

Bahorel also chimed in: "We found him in his apartment after letting him stand on his own for an hour or so, and then we pissed off all his neighbours, yet here he is. Without his strong will and passion, we wouldn't be standing here right now. Such spirit is exactly what we are looking for." 

 _I don't even have to sell myself, it seems others are more than willing to do that_ , Grantaire said to himself. So he decided to stay quiet and waited for a response from the people around him. 

The man at the bar raised his bottle to Grantaire. "I vote yes," he declared, and accompanied his statement with a gulp from his bottle. The blond man at the table with papers burst into giggling, soon followed by his two other friends. The girl in the corner wiggled her eyebrows at Grantaire and yelled: "I'll say aye to that." 

Then, the man with the blonde curls spoke, and all Grantaire's attention was on him. He turned to everyone in the room to address them universally: "This is not some sort of talent show. We need to-" His serious tone was met with laughter coming from the trio at the table. One of the two dark-haired men yelled: "Good idea. We should let him take auditions!" He turned to Grantaire. "Can you sing, dance? Or are you really good at magic tricks or something?" 

Grantaire was about to answer something stupid, but before he could the man with the blonde curls stood up from his chair, and as he did his red coat fell off the chair. He sternly looked at Grantaire and then turned his look on the man at the table: "Feuilly, please be serious. He's not just a friend to us. We need to make sure he is fit to be part of us." He looked back at Grantaire, his eyes scanning. "You never know who to trust." 

A quiet came over the room. Grantaire, against his better judgement, felt the need to respond to what he interpreted as an accusation thrown at him despite having done nothing to provoke it. He shrugged Courfeyrac's shoulder off and took a step forward. And he surprised even himself with the confidence in his voice when he spoke. "Neither do you know whom not to trust, it would seem to me," he replied with a stern look to Apollo. "I waited for an entire hour and answered the door for two strangers in the middle of the night. I think I've done quite enough to prove myself dedicated, haven't I?" If there was anything he wasn't feeling up to, it was getting criticised. 

"And how would that prove anything about your intentions?" the man replied. "What if you are just here to expose us to the police?" 

 _Not to the police, my dear Apollo, to the Patron-Minette_. Grantaire smiled a lazy smile at the man: "If you want me to fuck off, I'll go away right now. And I won't disturb you in your efforts to find another sniper. I'm sure you have crowds begging to audition." 

He saw a flash of anger cross the face of his opponent, and he opened his mouth to talk back. However, the man behind him warned him softly. "Enjolras, that's enough for now. He's done nothing to deserve such accusations." 

 _Enjolras_. So that was his name. Grantaire looked at him, and decided that the name fit quite well. It sounded as fierce as the man behind it. He looked at Enjolras, awaiting his next move. He was already thoroughly enjoying this man, or better said, challenging him. Enjolras turned around to face the man who'd given him advice, and said: "You're right." 

He turned back to Grantaire, but when he spoke he addressed Grantaire's escorts: "Are you sure that he's the one who spread the message?" And Grantaire was ready to tell Enjolras that he could speak for himself, but decided to leave it be.

Bahorel laughed softly. "When he opened the door he had a rifle at his side." 

Enjolras nodded. He shot a glance at the man behind him, and whispered something to him that Grantaire couldn't hear. The man softly talked back, and after a brief discussion, Enjolras turned back to him. He cleared his throat and spoke: 

"Grantaire, you presented yourself as a sniper and offered yourself to Les Amis de l'ABC", he said. "We are in need of a sniper and tomorrow, we'll test whether your sniping skills are worth our time and effort, but for now, we'll welcome you" He gestured to all the people in the room. He then stepped forward to Grantaire and extended his hand. Grantaire reached out as well, and their hands touched. 

Then, Enjolras smiled at him. "Welcome to Les Amis de l'ABC. I hope you're worth the effort and gasoline it took to drive you here." His smile, albeit a bit reserved, seemed friendly enough, a contrast to his serious demeanour from only moments ago. Grantaire suspected it had something to do with the man behind Enjolras, who smiled at him when he caught Grantaire staring at him. 

Grantaire laughed at the small joke and let go of Enjolras' hand. "Well, I hope so too, because my neighbours weren't too happy with all the knocking on their doors." 

"Hey," Courfeyrac said, "we had to. How could we know which apartment was yours?" 

Grantaire laughed at that, and soon he found himself surrounded by all people in the bar, talking to him and introducing themselves. Grantaire couldn't remember any of their names, but he figured he would in time. He laughed with them and Courfeyrac convinced him to play cards with him, Bahorel and a few others. Grantaire even got a free drink from the girl at the bar, because he was 'new here'. He drank wine, and after that someone gave a round, and he drank more. Soon, the cards were abandoned and he was trying to follow the topics of the conversations around him. It was hard because all people around him were either tipsy or drunk and hopped from topic to topic. So he dropped the efforts and instead just enjoyed the noise and friendly laughter around him. 

And then, when he looked up, he found a pair of eyes staring him down. A calculating gaze. 

Enjolras was looking at him with that same doubtful look from before. He tried to ignore it, but as the night went on he found those fierce, beautiful green eyes watching him intently every time he checked.

Grantaire wasn't stupid: Enjolras was their leader, that was clear as daylight. He was the most responsible, the most careful. And, sadly, also the one Grantaire knew would intrigue him the most. From the moment he'd laid eyes on Enjolras, he knew that this man would be something big. He would probably be of great influence on Grantaire's life. Something about him made him special. 

And he was the leader of Les Amis. Which meant that Grantaire, no matter the circumstances, would be the one to kill him. 

And Enjolras' eyes never left him that night.


	4. Déjà vu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is a few days earlier because I'm going on vacation tomorrow. In the meantime Ill still write here and there but can't really post anything, so there'll be a hiatus on this thing for about three weeks. I'll immediately post when I come back. For now just enjoy that precious Enjoltaire banter and tension and bare with me. Also this is super cheesy but thanks so much for the kudos and comments its really great and I love reading your comments, even if im terrible at replying to them.

It had been two full hours since Grantaire had woken up, and no one had come to get him yet. He was still dressed, safe for his boots, and ready to start the day, but the door was locked, effectively making it impossible for him to leave the room in which he'd woken up. 

He was sitting on his bed, bored out of his mind. He had tried falling asleep after waking up, but something kept him from it. So he'd decided on lying on his bed and stargazing at his ceiling. And when he became too restless for that, he'd started wandering about the small room he was in. He didn't remember walking into this room. As to why he didn't , he figured that he'd fallen asleep at some point. From exhaustion or drunken stupor, he did not know. At some point that night, he'd lost track of the sips he'd gotten from other people's glasses. And then he had awoken in a room with nothing but a locked door and a bed, and with hours left to wait until someone would come to get him. 

He rubbed his temples in an attempt to get rid of the annoying sting above his eyebrows. Drinking had been a grave mistake of him. He couldn't risk telling things to these people because of his alcohol-induced stupidity. _I really should be more careful_.

Tapping the floor with his foot impatiently, desperate for some kind of distraction, he tried distracting himself from his nervous feelings with memories of last night. He'd spent most of his night at the bar with Courfeyrac and the couple. They had seemed very nice. He remembered that the guy's name was Joly, and that he was also a student and was studying medicine or something. He was a bit nervous and twitchy at times, but Grantaire had liked him well enough. Both Courfeyrac and Joly had called the girl 'Chetta', even though she'd told him another name when they'd shaken hands. As for the others, he'd talked to them only briefly. For now, he already knew Bahorel, Courfeyrac and Joly, and he'd just call Chetta by her nickname. 

Then, another name sprang to mind:  _Enjolras_.

Grantaire resorted to lying on his bed and looking at the ceiling. If all he could do was wait, he might as well lie down. _Enjolras_. The name drifted in his thoughts, and soon he fell into thinking.

He didn't know how he was going to make Enjolras let his guard down around him. Every time his gaze had wandered around that night, Enjolras would be staring at him from over his friend's shoulder. As soon as he noticed that Grantaire was aware of him, he'd turn his eyes away. To have someone monitor him as blatantly as Enjolras intimidated Grantaire. It felt like he was challenging Grantaire, testing him with those gorgeous eyes. And it frustrated Grantaire more than he liked.

He drew in a long breath and enjoyed the feeling of it escaping him. He was so done with waiting, yet he didn't dare do anything. He doubted any of Les Amis' leaders would be there if he started making a scene. Rather, he'd just have some underdog yell at him to shut up and go back to sleep. 

 _Just like the old days_ , Grantaire told himself. Even in his own head, it sounded bitter. Montparnasse had kept him in a room like this for a few weeks. When Grantaire first met Claquesous, it was when he was banging on the door demanding to be let out. At the memory of it, he felt dumber than ever to think that Montparnasse would be the one to check on him. He had appointed Claquesous to that task, and Claquesous had been dutiful to the end. His fists curled when thinking about Claqusous.

It wasn't long before he was standing up again, pacing around in his room, trying to not think about Claquesous or the Patron-Minette in general. What if Montparnasse had only let him go just so he could track down Les Amis. What if he was right outside, ready to blow up the entire building? Montparnasse would use a bomb, just like last time, and if any of Les Amis survived, they would know that Grantaire was a traitor. _I'm just paranoid_ , Grantaire told himself, but he still felt a huge need to tuck his knives in his pants, within hand's reach. 

Then he suddenly remembered: his knives!

He abruptly walked to his pair of shoes and picked them up. They were the only thing he hadn't been wearing when he woke up from a stressful sleep, which meant someone had pulled them off. The knives. If they'd seen those...

Grantaire cursed at himself softly for not thinking about it earlier. He still had to check, but it was a lot riskier right now than two hours ago. Back then, everyone was probably sleeping. But now anyone might come for him anytime soon.

He placed the boots on the bed and then sat down himself. He glanced over at the door and kept his eyes on it. Then, hand shaking, he reached into the boot and traced over the soft fabric, looking for the cut. 

Soon he felt the hilt of his knive pointing out a little bit. He took a sharp breath when he touched it. His weapons were still there. He tried to keep his mind off of it, but he knew that this little mistake might've cost him his life if Les Amis had found out. He _couldn't_ afford mistakes like these. 

Suddenly, a key was loudly shoved into the lock on his door. Grantaire heard it, and he knew that he had but seconds. His first instinct was panic, and he almost shoved the boots off of the bed. He only stopped himself just in time, and instead stuck his left foot in his boot. He could hear the key turning in the lock, and hurried to put on the other boot. His eyes were transfixed on the door. He'd only just pushed his right foot in its boot when he saw the knob turning. Then, the door opened. His heart pounded.

In the doorway stood Joly. His eyes scanned the room briefly before he saw Grantaire, and at the sight of him his face turned surprised: "You're already awake? For how long?" Then, he grinned and said: "I thought you'd be out longer, considering the state you were in yesterday." 

"I woke up at around five-thirty," Grantaire responded. Then, it was his turn to ask a question. "If you thought I was asleep, why did you come here? And where am I, may I ask?"

"Five-thirty!" Joly's voice raised a bit in tone and he sounded horrified. "What have you been doing all the time. I heard some noise and thought you were sleepwalking or something. That's also why I came to check on you." He shot Grantaire a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry for you. How are you feeling, then? Couldn't sleep?"

Grantaire shrugged. He didn't remember dreaming anything, but when he woke up he was tangled in his bedsheets, trembling. Joly, however, didn't have to know that, he decided. "No, I just woke up from something. I don't know what." He cast Joly a smile. "And I can't fall asleep after waking up, so yeah." 

Joly studied him with a critical look. Grantaire stared back at him, unsure of what to do. And the longer the silence lasted, the more worried Grantaire became. The pressure of the hilt against his calf was enough to put him on edge. He hoped Joly didn't notice. Luckily, he didn't, or he wasn't showing it, because he turned his attention to Grantaire again: "Sorry, I was just pondering about stuff. It's not healthy to only sleep three hours." 

Grantaire rubbed his temples. "You're such a medical student," he said. "I remember that from last night. Or so I think, at least." 

Joly chuckled at that. "I  _was_ a medical student, I don't do classes anymore. Luckily I still have a lot of the books, so technically speaking, I still study." He then gestured for Grantaire to stand up. "Now that you're awake as well, we should probably get some breakfast. Chances are you're gonna need a good breakfast for today." 

Grantaire was walking down a hallway with Joly a minute later. He was surprised to find out that he wasn't at the location he was yesterday night; the labyrinth of corridors was new. But without four constricting walls around him, he already felt a lot less stressed. Joly apparently noticed, because he gave Grantaire an apology. "Sorry about locking you into a room. It wasn't too bad, I hope." 

Grantaire didn't want to come off as whiny or, even worse, vulnerable, so he just acted indifferent and airily answered: "It's alright. I can understand why you'd do it." He peered off to the end of the corridor. He wanted to memorise all that he saw. The quicker he knew the way, the better. Meanwhile, it would be wise to find out what today had in stock for him. So he asked Joly what they were going to do with him today. The man laughed at that and shot Grantaire a playful sideway glance. 

"Well, we're not gonna interview you, I can tell you that much." 

Really helpful," Grantaire chimed in sarcastically, "how much do you ask for this valuable information?"

Joly shoved him lightly while grinning and scoffed. "Don't get sarcastic with me! We already have enough of those people. I really don't need your input." Then, he picked up where he left and elaborated on the schedule today: "For as far as I know, we're only going to see how good you are at sniping and such. I'd also count on some plan from Enjolras, but I don't know about that." 

Grantaire had been sure that that name would be mentioned. He was still trying to figure out exactly how Les Amis de l'ABC were structured. At fist, he'd assumed that all people he'd met in the bar last night were the leaders of Les Amis, with Enjolras as a boss. But this didn't seem the case: from what Joly said, it sounded more like Enjolras was the gang's only leader, and they were just... friends or something? Grantaire wasn't entirely sure. "Does Enjolras make all the decisions around here?"

Joly answered, which surprised Grantaire a bit. He'd expected that this sort of data was classified. But either this wasn't the case or Joly was a lot more trusting than he'd anticipated, because Joly simply said: "Well, Enjolras does usually make the plans for heists and such. But we decide all together. Usually we put it to a vote. And he also asks Combeferre for advice. Combeferre was the man talking to Enjolras yesterday evening, by the way."

Grantaire nodded. "His advisor?" 

"You could put it that way," Joly confirmed. They turned a corner, and Joly guided him down the corridor. They kept talking, though Grantaire didn't dare ask more questions. It would be suspicious. Instead, he just asked general questions, such as favourite colour, his study he quit, and also about the girl at the bar.

"Are you two a couple?"

Joly nodded, and the smile creeping up on his face was so endearing that even Grantaire had to smile. "She is the most amazing woman I've ever met. I've never been so in love with someone. Apart from Bossuet, of course." The last bit he added quickly, and Grantaire had to think hard whether he knew the name Bossuet. Probably another one of Les Amis, he guessed. But before he could ask, Joly grabbed him by the arm to stop him from walking through a door in front of them. Grantaire kept quiet, and thanks to that he could hear faint voices coming from the other side of the door. 

"Ah, we're not the only ones awake," Joly said. He opened the door and stepped inside, and Grantaire followed. The moment he entered the room he felt intense staring directed at him. And Joly was not the source of it. Only one person had watched him so fiercely since he'd arrived. 

Enjolras averted his eyes quickly to Joly and greeted him before looking back at Grantaire. "Good morning, Grantaire. Did you sleep well?"

The question was polite enough, but Enjolras looked at him with such hostility that Grantaire could only receive it as an insult. "Well, I was doing pretty good, until I found myself locked up and had to wait two hours for someone to open the door for me." He smiled as cynical as he could before asking: "And how did you sleep tonight?" 

Enjolras smiled back with a tight smile, which he wasn't trying to cover up: "I slept very well, thank you. I'm amazed you are up so early; last night made me think you'd be asleep the entire day." 

In response, Grantaire chuckled and bowed for Enjolras, mocking a gesture of obedience: "I wouldn't want to miss my first day at work, boss." 

Enjolras looked as if he was about to say something back, but Combeferre put a hand on his arm and whispered something in his ear. At the same time, Joly shot him a look and muttered 'shut up' to Grantaire. Grantaire shrugged in response, but kept quiet anyway. Maybe it would be better to stay civil with the leader of Les Amis. 

Then, Joly pierced through the silence and addressed Combeferre: "What are you two doing here?" He pointed to the table at which they were sitting. A map of Paris was spread out on it. 

"Planning a heist," Combeferre answered. Enjolras had resorted to staring at the map, tracing a line in the table with his finger. With his brow furrowed and his curls falling over his face, he looked like a thinker made of marble. Grantaire had no idea what he'd done to make Enjolras act so unfriendly towards him, but it didn't matter at all to him. An angry Enjolras was just as beautiful as a normal Enjolras. _If only he wasn't such a douchebag_ , Grantaire reminded himself.

He glanced at the table to see what Combeferre and Enjolras had for breakfast. Both had an empty plate with crumbs of baguette and something else like that. They also both had a drink, but Combeferre had chosen a cup of tea, whereas Enjolras had a huge cup of dark coffee sitting on the table. Grantaire decided that he'd look for breakfast later. For now, there were other things to do. 

He approached the table with long strides and leaned over to examine the map. "Which place are you planning to rob?" And as he asked, he thought of another question: "And why would you go robbing now? You've recently robbed the BNP Paribas, surely you aren't in need of money right now?" 

Enjolras looked up at him and answered: "We don't just rob for the money. It's about morality." He explained it as if he was teaching a toddler the alphabet. "We're not just robbers, we invest our money in organisations that need it." 

"Ah, like Robin Hood?" Grantaire replied dryly. He couldn't believe what Enjolras said, and with the casualty he said it. They robbed for the greater good. What a joke.

Enjolras' jaw tightened. "Is there a problem with that?" 

Grantaire put his arms across each other. "I just don't think you should rob banks and kill people in the process for the sake of justice, while robbing people of money they worked hard for." 

He saw Joly looking at him, horrified. Combeferre also silently watched in awe. Enjolras, however, was not so passive. He looked up at Grantaire, with disdain: "Do you really think those people worked hard to get that money? It's nothing but scamming among millionaires. My father and mother also got rich like that." 

"That still doesn't justify killing innocent people. Human life is worth more, isn't it?"

Enjolras sneered at him. "If you care so much about lives, why did you volunteer to be a sniper?"

And Grantaire knew that Enjolras had really hit the nail on the head. He felt himself heat up, and he couldn't find any words to respond with. Enjolras wasn't right. He didn't 'volunteer', he didn't want to kill even more people. But he couldn't tell them that. So he admitted defeat and avoided eye contact, because he was sure that he'd have beaten the smirk on Enjolras' face off. "You do know that you'll be the one killing most people, right?"  

Grantaire stared at him blankly. He wanted nothing more than to refuse right now, pull his knife out and kill all three of them. He wanted to run away. 

"Don't worry." He almost gritted the words out. "I'll do it."

He couldn't run away. Montparnasse was waiting for him to escape, he was sure of it. He always found Grantaire, according to himself he 'had his ways' to track Grantaire. And he was true to his words. He always found Grantaire. 

Combeferre raised his eyebrows at him. "Let's hope so. Because those guards need to be down when we infiltrate." He looked at the marked place on the map, then back to Grantaire. "How is your aim?"

"Depends on the rifle." Grantaire replied. His WWA 2000 had a range of 1000 meters, but he knew that he wasn't likely to get such a weapon in possession. 

"And how far can you shoot?" Combeferre asked. He'd clearly thought that Grantaire could only shoot from a smaller range. It would've been something to be proud of and Grantaire would've been proud of it weren't it for the fact that Montparnasse had specifically picked him to help him out with his war plan because he was the best shot. Grantaire had since disgusted his talent.  

"My highest hunting distance was about 800 meters, last time I checked." He answered. Enjolras' eyebrows knitted together, clearly unconvinced, but Joly laughed at him. "I doubt we encounter such distances, but it's very convenient anyhow." 

"Can you really shoot that far?" Combeferre asked with a bewildered voice. Grantaire felt awkward at the tone of admiration.  _It's nothing to be proud of_.

He nodded. Where Combeferre admired him, he only received a unbelieving scoff from Enjolras. "Perhaps you would have been as good as you claim if you hadn't drunk so much last night." He sharpy looked at Grantaire. "I will say that it's annoying enough to have to drag a drunk person to bed because they're too intoxicated to stand on their own feet, but when you are tired as hell and this person is someone you only just welcomed into your group hours ago, it's slightly worse." 

Enjolras had dragged him to bed? Grantaire felt his face go slightly hot at the thought.  _Goddamnit_ , he at cursed himself. _You've been here for one night_.

He really should have stayed sober, or maybe tipsy, but not drunk again. Getting drunk was unprofessional, and he wasn't at Patron-Minette anymore, where his professionalism -or lack thereof- was no problem because he had no choice anyway. He looked at Enjolras, and apologised reluctantly: "Sorry, that was stupid to do. I should've refused what I was offered. It's really sloppy." At that, Enjolras' eyes softened a bit at him, and he smiled a not quite friendly smile, but a smile nonetheless. 

"It's alright. We'll just see how you'll manage today with a hangover." Grantaire was ready to comment on how rude Enjolras was to insult him right after his -admittedly not heartfelt- apology. But Joly saved him from his own impulsive brains by saying: "Is there still bread left in the kitchen?" 

Enjolras answered, his attention on Joly now: "Yeah, Cosette brought some bread and other groceries from her home. And Marius, of course." He said that last part dryly and both Combeferre and Joly laughed, before Enjolras himself also cracked a grin. 

"We should thank Cosette for giving us back our dear Marius," Combeferre said, "She doesn't always return him home after a night. Poor guy came here and went to bed immediately. Haven't seen him since." 

Joly burst into laughter. "I'll thank her when I see her, but now I'll just get breakfast." 

Enjolras hummed and stood up. "I'll wake him up, along with the others." He looked at Grantaire: "We should start the initiation for Grantaire, let him prove his metal." 

"That I shall, but for now I'll just want some breakfast, thanks." Grantaire answered. Enjolras was only trying to make him nervous, and it wasn't working, but only because he already was as nervous as he could get. 

"Whatever you like," Enjolras sighed. Combeferre stood up as well, and announced that he'd help Enjolras with waking the others. The two walked out, leaving Joly and Grantaire. Joly bid him to follow to the kitchens, but Grantaire wasn't particularly interested in baguettes and croissants right then. Instead, he examined the map of Paris, and the markings made on it in pencil. He wasn't sure which company was stationed at the mark, but it looked to be in the richer end of Paris. Joly tried to pull him away, but after a few futile attempts he joined Grantaire. 

"Do you know how they're planning to perform this heist?" Grantaire asked Joly. The latter shook his head. "They've been planning for a week or maybe even two, but they haven't discussed it with anyone but Courfeyrac. My guess is that they are going to now. That's why Enjolras wants to wake them up already. Not just for your initiation, but also to tell them what he and Combeferre have been planning."

"Okay, sounds good." Grantaire answered. He straightened himself and turned back to look at Joly. "Let's get some breakfast."

Joly agreed, and the talk of heists and initiation stopped for a while as Joly showed him the way. 

** 

He and Joly had been sitting at their table for a good ten minutes before Enjolras and Combeferre returned with the others behind them. Grantaire looked up from his plate to watch them enter and found a sort of relief when he saw that he didn't look nearly as bad as some of Les Amis. Courfeyrac was stumbling and constantly reached for Combeferre to steady himself. When he noticed Grantaire, he laughed at him and that caused him to almost fall over. Grantaire laughed as Combeferre hauled him up, cursing through his teeth. Bahorel looked fine, safe for a bruise on his cheek and his knuckles, completely torn up. Grantaire could guess what Bahorel had been doing that night. The guy walking next to Enjolras, however, looked the worst. Grantaire hadn't seen him before, but he looked as if he was falling asleep while walking. His eyes slipped close every time he blinked, and he tripped over his own feet. Enjolras didn't carry him like Combeferre did with Courfeyrac, but Grantaire noticed how his eyes darted to the man next to him from time to time. And though Grantaire wasn't completely sure, he swore he could hear Enjolras sigh when he had to catch his friend for the third time since they'd entered the breakfast room. As soon as there was a table within reach, Enjolras almost shoved the man into a chair, where the guy lay his head on the table right away and looked to be asleep after three seconds. 

Enjolras seated himself and Combeferre joined him, as well as Courfeyrac. They started talking to each other in hushed voices, pointing to the map. Every now and then, Grantaire picked up a name, including his own. 

After a while of him trying to talk with Joly, listening to the conversation between the trio, everyone waking up and trying to talk through fatigue and food being fetched from the kitchens, Enjolras rose from his seat and addressed all people in the room: "Everyone, quiet down. We have a few things to discuss. Yesterday night wasn't quite as productive as expected." He cast a sideway glance to, well, basically everyone in the room safe for Combeferre. Snickers rose from the people in the room and glances were exchanged, but as soon as Enjolras called them to attention again, everyone stopped talking to listen to him. It was incredible how Enjolras could capture everyone's attention like this, with only a few words. 

"As you may remember from yesterday night, we have received response to our demand for a sniper. Today, we will be testing his ability and decide whether he is skilled enough to stay with us." 

All eyes were on him, and Grantaire shifted in his seat awkwardly. He couldn't shake off the thought that Enjolras hadn't said what would happen if he was deemed inadequate. He wanted to drop his gaze to his unfinished plate on the table, but at that moment Enjolras turned his head and caught him with the eyes, forcing him to keep eye contact. Grantaire didn't say anything, because he didn't know what to say to this man. He cleared his throat. "You'll be amazed. I am amazing at what I do." 

Enjolras looked at him with a bored expression. "Certainly. We'll see in an hour or so." 

An hour already? He already wanted him to take the test an hour from now? For a moment, stress was all he felt, and he could only keep staring at Enjolras, incapable of doing anything else other than worrying. What if he wasn't good enough?

But then, he reminded himself why he was here. Montparnasse wouldn't have sent him if he'd thought that Grantaire would fail as a sniper. He wouldn't waste Grantaire like that. Grantaire forced himself to nod. 

Enjolras had given him time to think about it, and the room had been silent for that time. Everyone was looking. At Grantaire, Enjolras, each other. Before Grantaire could respond, Enjolras broke the silence once again. But when he did, he didn't address the group, but only Grantaire: "When we're done talking, you will go along with Feuilly." He pointed to a table with two men: one of them was the one that had been dragged along by Enjolras, the other one looked significantly better, and appeared to be well-rested. He nodded to Grantaire and waved at him. "At your service." In response, Grantaire saluted him with a smile. 

"Feuilly will bring you to our arsenal, and there you can get a sniper rifle." 

"Can I pick?" Grantaire asked Enjolras. Feuilly answered him before Enjolras could start talking. "We do have a few types of snipers, and handguns as well," he explained. Grantaire nodded. At least he could still pick. He was pretty sure that a WA 2000 was too much to ask, but he was familiar with other types.  

Enjolras continued talking when Feuilly's and Grantaire's brief exchange was done. He turned his attention back to all people in the room rather than exclusively Grantaire. The room was still, everyone listened attentively. 

"The other thing I'd like to bring to attention is a new plan Combeferre and I are working on," he told. "We are planning to perform a heist on la Société Générale." He wanted to continue, but before he could murmurs rose from the crowded room. Bahorel was the first to stand up and open his mouth: "Enjolras, perhaps this wouldn't be the best idea right now. Our latest heist was already a near failure, and since Paribas the rich companies have become a lot more guarded. La Société isn't just a gas station!" A few sounds of agreement echoed throughout the room, and Bahorel sat down. Grantaire couldn't agree more to what Bahorel had said. He wasn't exactly an expert on planning robberies and such, but he knew that this was a risky move. With their name all over the media after successfully robbing one of France's richest banks, going out again would put Les Amis de l'ABC in the spotlight. 

Enjolras looked around the room, and Grantaire saw how his eyes silently found contact with each member. Taking in their opinion on this, asking them to face him if they had a problem. Grantaire was familiar with the trick. In the army, it had been much the same. Sometimes soldiers would complain about something, or criticize a certain plan, and then they would have to look their superior in the eye, and the superior would ask: "If this is not a good plan according to you, what would you have us do? Because something needs to be done." It was an effective way of manipulating people. And Enjolras knew this, undoubtedly. He turned to Bahorel. 

"It is risky, I'll admit. But action needs to be taken. Corruption has been higher than it has been in decades. Combeferre researched it." The man in question nodded when Enjolras looked down at him. "Employees have been receiving less and less payment for more work. A lot of the profits go into the pockets of the high-ranks. If we were to take their gain away, it would not only bring attention to the issue, but the money could also be used for better endings. Perhaps we can make them raise the income of their employees." 

Grantaire had been listening patiently to Enjolras, but as he went on and on Grantaire found himself losing patience with what was being said. And he forgot that he was still in a danger zone, that he should be careful. Because when Enjolras took a moment to collect himself, Grantaire spoke up, glaring at Enjolras. "And how do you think a robbery will effect the employees' fees?" 

Enjolras had not looked at him as soon as the subject had changed. He'd seemingly forgotten that Grantaire was in the room with him. But when the words left Grantaire's mouth, Enjolras almost jerked his head to stare at him with cool eyes. Grantaire was trying to tell himself that he had to learn when to shut up, but he couldn't just let Enjolras rant about justice without knowing the consequences of his actions. So he continued: "If la Société Générale were to lose a big part of its capital, the employees would get lower incomes first. You would indirectly make life harder for the people you want to help. There might be corruption, but exposing it will only cause people to lose their money or even their jobs." 

It was eerily quiet in the room. Grantaire looked around, to see what the others thought of this. But no one was looking at him. Everyone was focused on something else, even Joly. 

"That might be true, but it will be better for the greater good." Enjolras' voice was icy. Fierce as he was, Grantaire felt that he wasn't used to being opposed. And Grantaire knew that he most certainly wasn't the one to oppose him.  _Just shut up!_

"You have no right to ruin people's lives for the 'greater good'. It's not the greater good if the people who are in need of their jobs will be effected negatively." He exclaimed, rising from his chair. He raised his hand to Enjolras, pointing at him. "It's people like you who make life harder for the poor. You see the greater good as a world where all things you deem unacceptable are as minimal as possible. You don't bother to think about individuals, how their lives will be." 

"Are you saying we should let these people be exploited? Let them be forced to work and receive less than they deserve? If so, I think you might've chosen the wrong group to join." Enjolras was not loud as before. Instead, he spoke softly in a low tone, and he said the last part with a low that hung heavily in the air. 

Grantaire wanted to say something back, already had his words in his head, but suddenly he couldn't talk. Enjolras wasn't challenging him, he was warning him. He was no member, he couldn't just say what he wanted. Everything he did wrong in the eyes of Enjolras was a sign of betrayal. And if there would be conflict, it wouldn't end with him winning.  

No one in the room talked. They stared away, avoiding Grantaire. And Grantaire told himself to sit down, admit defeat once again. Enjolras was dangerous. And it was at that moment that Grantaire realized that Enjolras was just like Montparnasse, and would eliminate his enemies. He had different goals than Montparnasse, perhaps, but he would use anything he needed to achieve his goals. Enjolras was cruel, just like Montparnasse. And Grantaire didn't want two cruel and dangerous people as his enemies. One was already more than enough. So he kept his mouth. But he didn't stop glaring at Enjolras. His own small reminder to Enjolras that he wasn't agreeing with him. The only struggle he could show. 

Enjolras watched him lower himself into his seat so he could look down at Grantaire. "I don't think we should discuss our planned missions in the presence of you," he sneered. He crossed his arms. "Feuilly," he called. 

"Yeah," came the reply from Feuilly, as he straightened himself into his seat. 

Enjolras gestured to Grantaire with disdain. "Take him to the arsenal. I think it's time for him to prepare himself for his test." He looked sternly at Grantaire. "I hope the alcohol's wearing off. In an hour, we will begin your test." 

Grantaire stood up, keeping his eyes on Enjolras. He kept quiet, but in his mind he raged.

_I'll show you just how accurate my aim is. One shot through the head during our heist, and you'll know just how good I shoot._

_I've killed more people with one bullet than you probably have in your entire life_.

Instead, he smiled at Enjolras, cold as stone, as Feuilly took him by the arm and guided him away. And right before the door closed behind him, he winked at Enjolras, whose eyes were burning as they disappeared from sight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm horrible at replying to comments, but I appreciate every single one. Criticism is also really appreciated; helps me get better! 
> 
> Tumblr: osuwariii Come talk to me :) I would love to talk to you
> 
> anyway thats it for now. have a good time!


	5. Rise and Shine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back at last! Now it's time to get back to writing gay love stories. Looking forward to it, though i'm still kinda stuck on writers block after three weeks of doing nothing. For this chapter I have tried to do...adequate research into guns and different types, so hopefully it works.

Feuilly inhaled deeply as soon as the door closed, and he stared at Grantaire in disbelief: "Do you want to die or something?" He shook his head to emphasise his statement. Grantaire could almost laugh at the irony of being told he _wanted_ to die, rather than not being given any choice. But the anger at Enjolras hadn't subsided yet, and he felt the desperate need to elaborate on his feelings towards the plan. 

"I can't stand him!" he groaned in frustration. "How dare he claim that he knows what's best for the workers in la Société Générale, or any other company? He is willing to  _kill_  people and still thinks that he has the moral high ground." He tried to look to his left to make eye contact with Feuilly, but only then he realised that Feuilly was lagging behind; he had started to walk faster from the anger.

He quickly came to a halt as he waited for Feuilly to catch up, all the while still complaining. "I can't just sit by as he decides to get people killed. Justice for the poor? He doesn't even care about the lives he wants to improve!" 

Feuilly had caught up with him, and Grantaire saw doubt across his face. He didn't seem to be entirely against Grantaire, but still spoke up against him with a voice Grantaire recognised as guiding: "He does, but no matter how much you care about others, you need to do radical things to make even the smallest changes sometimes. Enjolras can be extreme, but he really does everything he does for what he thinks is best." 

"Well, I can tell you that as a guy from the 'working class', it's very condescending to assume that we can't make decisions for ourselves." Grantaire snarled. In return, Feuilly shot him a sharp look.

"And as a guy who also grew up poor, I can tell  _you_  that my life has gotten quite a lot better thanks to him," he spat out.

Grantaire had already readied himself to give a response, but Feuilly's statement threw him off guard. He stared at Feuilly, unsure of what he should tell him. In the end, he could only decide on asking the most rhetorical question: "You grew up poor?" Suddenly he felt very bad about his own comment; he was part of lower society, in fact he was the lowest society got, but only because of his own personal choices, not because that was how he was born and raised. But he hadn't expected Feuilly, or any member of Les Amis for that matter, to come from the dodgy end.

Feuilly nodded. "I used to be a factory worker. My father worked at a gas station, and my mother would translate books to French as a side job." He cast Grantaire a gaze, and explained: "During a party I met Marius. Then, when Les Amis de l'ABC were officially formed, Marius invited me to a meeting and the rest is history," he finished with a shrug. Grantaire could tell from the vague story that Feuilly was either not telling everything or just plain making up a story.  _During a party, when Les Amis de l'ABC were formed, the rest is history_ , there was not a single clear detail left in. Grantaire reminded himself that it might be that the details just weren't important, but he kept having a feeling of wariness in his stomach, his head drumming _'this guy doesn't trust you'_.

"Though things didn't change quickly, they definitely did, and I was amazed at how much everyone cared." Feuilly was smiling fondly at the memory, and he apparently didn't notice the long and calculated gaze Grantaire was unconsciously casting at him. Then he brought himself back to where his conversation with Grantaire had started:

"Anyways, Enjolras really does want to better people's lives, don't just assume things about him." 

"He wants to better some lives at the cost of others!" Grantaire exclaimed. He threw his hands in the air. Feuilly shook his head curtly. "No, he doesn't. If it were up to Enjolras, he'd try and save the entire world, but he just can't," Feuilly sighed. 

And just as Grantaire wanted to argue this statement, that Enjolras didn't care about people as individuals but as groups, Feuilly friendly smiled at Grantaire. "I'm sure that he wants to help you too. From what I've heard your place is about as bad as it gets." 

Grantaire almost ignored it, not done with the debate, but just as he was about to start a new rant, he remembered Enjolras' warning eyes from moments before, telling him that his every move was watched, and every disagreement was a sign of his guilt. And he understood that he didn't want to have this discussion. At least not now, with Feuilly. And Feuilly was offering him a swift change of topic, a way out, so to speak. 

So he forced himself to chuckle, and made a noise of agreement. "I'm not sure about the Enjolras part, but you're not mistaken about my homing situation." Feuilly smiled back, and they walked along, discussing small things. Grantaire was happy that Feuilly had changed the topic, and he suspected that Feuilly wanted to stop the serious talk too. 

However, without the talk he could rack his brains on, it wasn't long before Grantaire's thoughts were drifting back to Montparnasse, and whether he was waiting for a sign of life from him. He wondered just how long Les Amis were planning on keeping him locked in their villa. 

 _Might as well ask_. "So, how long will it take until I can go back to my apartment to fetch some clothes and such?" he asked. In response, Feuilly shrugged. "Not sure. First focus on passing the test, then start worrying about that kind of stuff. You need to prove yourself first." 

 _And what if I don't_ , Grantaire grimly reflected.  _Will I ever see my apartment again if I fail?_  His mind was unwillingly asking these questions which only served the purpose of making him more worried about his skills. What if he couldn't do it? And no matter how many times he told himself that Montparnasse had sent him specifically for his talent, it couldn't calm him.

Feuilly pulled his thoughts back to the hallway, talking to him. "I think you can visit your apartment when you ask. Under surveillance, probably, but still. You can get what you need." 

That part about surveillance was exactly what he needed to get rid of, because he had to find some private time to drop little reports for Montparnasse. He wouldn't need more than a few seconds, just to write a quick note and leave it somewhere where it would be found. But if he was unlucky, which was his charm, even something as small as that would be a risky task. He thanked Feuilly nonetheless, not wanting to seem ungrateful or suspicious. And they walked on. 

It wasn't long before Feuilly made him stand still in front of a door with an electric lock with a card slide. As for what was behind the door, he was pretty certain it was their arsenal. Feuilly pulled a card out of the pocket of his jacket and slid it in the lock. Soon, Grantaire heard a beep. Then, Feuilly bashed in a few keys on a keyboard next to the door, which were followed by a loud click, and Feuilly pushed the door open. He gestured for Grantaire to come in. And when Grantaire stepped in, he could barely believe his eyes: he had expected an impressive gun stock: Les Amis was one of the best gangs in Paris after all. However, he hadn't expected the arsenal to be of this quality. There were guns lined along the walls, and towers of crates were stacked up to the ceiling, with names of many types of guns and pistols painted on it in black paint. He was amazed by the names he encountered. He didn't know all of them, but the ones he did know were generally far too good for him. Montparnasse was always very persistent with the low quality for small prices, so seeing this stock made him feel nostalgic to the time when he still used the FR F2, military equipment made to survive attack. 

"So, I don't know what kind of rifle you are best with, but I suggest you just try out and decide for yourself," Feuilly told Grantaire, paying no mind to how Grantaire was practically drooling over the gun collection. Grantaire barely even heard him. 

"So, what kind of sniper are you used to?" 

Grantaire named the first one he could think of that was not a WA 2000 or FR F2. "Barrett, I guess. Sorry, I'm kind of indifferent. As long as it has good range I'm happy."

Feuilly made a humming noise, and then went to the left wall, searching the crates. Grantaire ignored him for the sake of inspecting the back wall. It was just as full as the other walls, but instead of guns it was aligned with all kinds of knives. Long ones, straight ones, curved ones. Some were decorated, others were plain. It was a huge collection, probably even bigger than the gun collection. And he was drawn to it, despite the knife not being his primary weapon. He'd also known times where a knife was his only protection. It was a reliable weapon. The mere thought of having knives with him had already been a way of calming himself several times since he'd gotten here. 

Feuilly returned to him, Grantaire could see from the corner of his eye. When he turned his head, he saw the gun in Feuilly's hands. He squinted at it in an attempt to identify it. It was no Barrett, but he wasn't sure what it was. He looked at Feuilly and hoped that an explanation would follow. Luckily, Feuilly picked up on this and commented: "A Heckler en Koch PSG1. We don't have Barrett's, but this gets pretty close. Has about 800 meters firing range, 1000 metres less, but you don't need long-distance guns for now, and it recoils about as much as a Barrett." He handed it to Grantaire. "Is it alright?" 

"Sure." Grantaire said with feigned confidence. He carefully accepted the gun handed to him and inspected the barrel. "So where can I take my test?"

Feuilly grinned at him. "Not so fast, you'll have some time to practise first, get used to the way it works. Or have you used this one before?" 

Grantaire shook his head. Feuilly made a sarcastic tsk-sound and walked to a large cupboard. He opened it and pulled out a plastic bag with bullets inside. He stretched his arm to Grantaire and left his hand open in the air. 

Grantaire placed the gun in his hand, but he had the urge to tell Feuilly that he wasn't a teen who needed someone to load a gun properly. He told himself no: Feuilly was probably just trying to be nice or something. 

Feuilly handed him the gun, now loaded. Grantaire accepted it, and Feuilly urged him to come along. Before he knew it, they were standing in a long hall with no furniture; the only things standing in the room were objects of varying sizes, some small and some big ones. They were all the way to the back of the room, and Grantaire knew what he had to do. 

He silently stood still, rifle limply in hand, staring at the targets in front of him: a bucket hanging from a ceiling, a training dummy, a teddy bear wearing a baret, and other things. This was the moment. Soon, he would either officially be infiltrating Les Amis, or he would be dead. He shook off the last thought. He would pass. He was a good sniper and they needed him. They would take him. 

_You're the best sniper around, and I need you to help me. Will you?_

A chill ran through Grantaire, and suddenly everything was pounding: his head, his chest, his hands. His gripped the rifle in his right hand, and focused his gaze on the baret bear across the room. _Don't distract yourself, don't think back, focus!_

Feuilly returned, and though Grantaire could hear him approach, he didn't want to, didn't dare turn around. He heard the slight doubt in Feuilly's voice: "Are you okay? Something wrong?"

Sharply turning around, Grantaire shook his head and relaxed his muscles a bit: "No, it's fine." Feuilly cocked an eyebrow at him, but didn't go further into it. He placed a hand on Grantaire's shoulder and squeezed it a bit. "Nervous?"

Grantaire let out a laugh. "No, I'm not really like that." He raised his rifle in the air to show his confidence. "Should I start? Like, shooting something?"

Feuilly nodded. "Just take it easy. This is only practice. When you're done, we'll go elsewhere." 

 _Take it easy my ass_. Grantaire cocked the hammer back, pointed the barrel to one of the dummies and pulled the trigger. A shot rang harshly through the air, and his ears rang painfully. "Fuck!" he yelled, and covered his ears. He should've thought of that. In the background he also heard Feuilly curse. The loud echo kept going on and on, and his head was screaming at him that he was a fucking idiot. Nice first image. Shooting in a hall without ear protection. 

When the sound finally faded, Grantaire carefully took his hands off of his ears and checked his shot. It was right through the head of the dummy. A spark of satisfaction lit up inside him. At least he'd shot exactly as he had planned. He turned around to Feuilly and a nervous chuckle came from his throat. "Sorry, didn't think of that." He lamely gestured to the dummy: "I think I'm done practising."

Feuilly had removed his hands from his ears as well, and only then went to check on Grantaire's shot. When he saw it was right in the middle, he nodded. "At least you did that right," he dryly stated. Grantaire laughed, but only because he didn't know how to react. It was so stupid. Feuilly shrugged. "Well, if you're feeling up to it, let's go." 

They left the room, and Feuilly led him to a door, which opened on a rooftop. Grantaire could look out over a large part of Paris. The Eiffel Tower stood grand in the distance. He enjoyed the view for a moment, and his hands ached to paint. Too bad his paintings were still in his apartment. 

Feuilly was standing beside him, quietly. Grantaire awkwardly shifted his balance. Was he supposed to start shooting? Or was he waiting for instructions? He hoped Feuilly would tell him, but Feuilly was just silently standing there, gazing into seemingly nowhere. 

Grantaire tried to remain professional and just wait for orders, but every moment of silence seemed to stretch into infinity, so in the end he gave up and asked: "So what am I supposed to do?"

Feuilly looked up, and was about to say something, but an overwhelming voice boomed over Feuilly's softer one: "Well well well, if it isn't our favourite rebellious teenager!" Courfeyrac shouted and he smirked at Grantaire, approaching him. Behind Courfeyrac came Combeferre and Enjolras, both looking much more serious. Grantaire watched them come through the door. Combeferre had a completely neutral face, whereas Enjolras eyed him warily. Grantaire saw his eyes flicker to the rifle, and then his eyes lifted to look at Grantaire. When their eyes met, Enjolras nodded at him with a nervous smile. Grantaire copied it. He reflected on how that was their first friendly interaction today. 

Courfeyrac slung his arm around his shoulder, and he saw Apollo shoot a gaze at Courfeyrac, breaking eye contact. And the moment ended, and Apollo was back to his usual self, the calm, in-control Enjolras. 

"Who are you calling rebellious," Grantaire teased with a weak attempt to push Courfeyrac off. "I'm literally here right now to take a test. On time and ready." A hand was rubbing him on the head, and he unsuccessfully tried to push Courfeyrac away again. "Stop it!"

"Trying to get on everyone's nerves on the first day, getting drunk on your first night. And you think being on time once will give you a pass?" Courfeyrac teased. "Someone will have to educate you. And it will be me." He laughed as he ruffled Grantaire's hair. "No more talking before your turn, no bar-fighting. We don't want two Bahorels in this company." 

The comment about Bahorel made Grantaire notice that Bahorel was absent, as well as the other people from that morning. Were these the true leaders of Les Amis, then? And then another thought came up:  _is Courfeyrac one of the leaders?_ Grantaire still wasn't sure about the structure. Enjolras was the main boss, for sure, but the others?

Courfeyrac brought him back by finishing his list of rules: "And no more drinking!"

"What kind of conservative cult did I get into?" Grantaire joked. Courfeyrac laughed at that. But apparently, making fun of his gang pushed Enjolras over the edge, and he effectively ended the armlock by asking Courfeyrac to let go of Grantaire. "After this, you'll have all the time to fuss over him. Let's get this over with." 

Courfeyrac complied instantly, and Grantaire pulled himself out of Courfeyrac's grip. After doing that, he straightened himself and lifted the gun from the ground in the assumption that Feuilly was done with it. He rested it in his hands horizontally to make sure that he wouldn't accidently shoot Combeferre or Enjolras. 

Combeferre cleared his throat. "Well, it's time for you to show us what you can do."

Grantaire nodded, ready to finally start what he had come here for. "Well, what should I do?" 

Enjolras pointed to something over his shoulder. Grantaire turned his head and saw that Enjolras was pointing to a flower pot standing on a balcony, about two hundred metres away. "Shoot that."

He didn't even bother looking through the scope. At this distance, there was no way he could miss. 

He already had his finger on the trigger when something came to his attention: "Can we just shoot like that? Won't there be police here within minutes?" 

Enjolras snorted. "Yeah, because we would totally not consider that. There's this thing called a silencer." He quickly grabbed the gun out of Grantaire's arms and attached something to it, context giving away its function. And he rolled his eyes as he handed it back to Grantaire. "I thought you were a professional."

"Well, I'm sorry for being careful." Grantaire sarcastically responded. "Besides, I never said that." Before Enjolras could answer, he refocused on his target and pulled the trigger. The flowerpot exploded in a thousand pieces a breath later. 

Slowly, he turned around to see their expressions. Feuilly looked at him with a content look, Combeferre seemed to approve as well. Courfeyrac had the edges of a smile creep on his face. And Enjolras looked slightly dazed, his mouth still open with a response on his lips.

"But that doesn't mean I'm not professional in terms of quality," Grantaire teased. He wiggled his eyebrows at Enjolras, and the reaction was priceless: Enjolras looked taken aback, with big eyes. Grantaire grinned. For someone like Enjolras to get so flustered was surprisingly typical, actually. That innocence was beautiful. 

"Well, pick a farther target," Combeferre suggested. "Can you hit that?" He pointed at an old traffic board, farther away. Grantaire nodded. He readied the rifle again. He carefully placed the middle of the traffic sign behind the dot on his spectroscope. He laid his finger on the trigger and closed his eye. Now, he was in his professional state. There was no shaking in his fingers, no wobbling in his legs. He was still as a statue, and all there was, was him and the sign. Breathlessly, he pushed his finger into the trigger, and the gun pushed into his shoulder. 

The bullet loudly hit the sign as if it was made of clay. Grantaire tried to check if the hole was in the middle where he'd wanted it. It was, perfectly in the middle. 

"Nice," Courfeyrac yelled. Grantaire smiled softly to himself. He was used to distances ten times as long. But he did use better sniper rifles for those distances.

"Are you used to bigger distances?" Enjolras asked lightly, as if he'd read Grantaire's mind. Grantaire looked up from his gun to Enjolras, and nodded. "Hunting requires a lot of distance, and small targets." He was making it up as he went along. "But this gun doesn't have that big a range. Not really necessary either, I think." 

Enjolras shrugged. "I guess so." He proceeded to point at garbage can, even farther away. "Can you hit that, too?" 

And so it almost turned into a game for Grantaire. Either Courfeyrac, Combeferre or Enjolras would ask him to shoot something, and he'd shoot it. He got lost in the flaring sensation of just shooting, without goals or things at stake. And he cherished every bullet that left his barrel. 

After what seemed like only minutes and a handful of instructions, Courfeyrac decided that they needed to spice things up. "You're way too good for still things," he told Grantaire, picking up a small stone from the roof, "but can you shoot moving things, huh?" 

And if Grantaire hadn't already been fired up from earlier, he certainly was now. A devoted sense of competition flared up inside him, and he accepted the challenge with open arms: "I don't shoot still things; that'd be dead animals." 

Enjolras interjected, seizing Courfeyrac by the arm. "Courf, maybe this is-"

Courfeyrac ignored Enjolras and threw the stone as far and high as he could. Grantaire watched it soar through the air, gripped his gun and waited for a second. Then, he released his bullet, and the stone suddenly cracked into dust. Then, another stone went flying, and he had it turned to dust within seconds.

"Courfeyrac, I think we've seen-" 

Another stone. Destroyed a second later. 

And another. And right after that one another. 

In the background, Enjolras was audible, turning more desperate to get Courfeyrac to stop throwing stones and rubble into the air, something about shards or something. Courfeyrac, ignored him, though, and kept throwing stones. And Grantaire focused on nothing but mowing the stones down. 

Then, there were three stones soaring. He pointed at the most left one first, and let the bullet loose. After that, he shot the other one a split second later, followed by the third one breaking off into a million bits. Grantaire heard his heart beat from the passion and waited for his next targets to come flying in. However, none came. Confused, Grantaire turned around to ask Courfeyrac why he'd stopped. 

He was met with faces completely baffled, four pairs of wide eyes looking at him. Completely silent. Even Courfeyrac wasn't saying a word, still clenching a stone in his hand. Combeferre and Enjolras stared at him. Feuilly too.

Grantaire felt his neck go hot. Was he supposed to feel embarrassed right now? Had he done something wrong? Or were they impressed? He didn't know how to react to these faces. He could only stare back. An uneasy feeling brewed inside of him. But he kept quiet, and waited for someone to break the silence. 

In the end Combeferre took that task upon himself. "Where did you learn to shoot like that?" 

"I told you, my father-"

"You don't learn that from hunting. Or you're able to shoot down entire flocks of birds." Combeferre interjected. He gestured to himself, Courfeyrac and Feuilly: "We threw a stone simultaneously, and you hit them all. How did you do that?"

Grantaire chuckled nervously and scratched his neck to hide his awkwardness. He was blushing, and he hated it. But he wasn't sure how to take Combeferre's comment. It was possible that Combeferre was just impressed, but from the way he'd said his words it sounded as if he didn't trust what was going on. It was something Grantaire had forgotten to take in consideration. He might have been a great shooter as a child, but to still be that good would require practice. He knew this, and his face became more heated. 

He didn't know what to say back, so he just shrugged. 

Courfeyrac was the next one to blurt out: "Dude, you're amazing!" He laughed in disbelief. Grantaire was unable to think of a response. Maybe he would've been more accepting to his 'talent' if it hadn't been the reason that innocent people were now dead because of him. And besides that, he wanted to know what Combeferre was thinking right now.

Even Enjolras couldn't hide that he was in awe. "That was impressive. I've never seen someone shoot like that." 

And Grantaire would've been fine with just awkwardly accepting these compliments, with the knowledge that he would eventually shoot them just like that, and returning inside to do something else. But then, Feuilly gave his commentary: "Those are some stale reflexes you have there. Quick and still like a statue. I wonder how." 

If he hadn't added that last line, Grantaire might've perceived it as a compliment, simple as that. But it was that last line that told him so much more. He wasn't really considering himself good friends with Feuilly yet, but something about him told Grantaire that the man found something or the other suspicious about Grantaire. Feuilly seemed to be the man-at-arms around here, so he probably knew more about guns and how people used them than anyone else.  _Stale reflexes. Quick and still like a statue_. Grantaire lowered his gun. He wasn't stupid, and neither was Feuilly. Even if Feuilly wasn't completely aware of what he was, he was definitely suspecting him. And Grantaire cursed himself. He should've held back. He would probably have some explaining to do at some point in time. 

Unable to respond to Feuilly, Grantaire averted his eyes and instead turned to Courfeyrac. He liked him most so far, and Courfeyrac also seemed to understand best that this entire ordeal was a stressful situation for him. Courfeyrac didn't disappoint him: he immediately caught on to Grantaire's hint and clapped his hands to gain the attention of the others. Feuilly turned to Courfeyrac, and Combeferre and Enjolras too. Grantaire breathed out in relief. He had a moment to catch his breath. 

"Well, I think we've seen enough," Courfeyrac declared. He reached out for Combeferre, and pulled him towards himself with a smirk. "What do you think, Ferre?" 

Combeferre nodded in agreement. "I think Grantaire is exactly what we need. He also seems ready to aid us in heists." His voice was polite but distanced, and Grantaire understood that he might have proven himself a good sniper, but not a good teammate. At least not to Combeferre. 

Feuilly was next to speak up. He took a more technical turn. "He's honestly a gifted shooter. Very accurate and quick. He would probably have no problem with aim."

It felt weird to be addressed as 'he' while he was standing right beside them. Grantaire knew that they were just discussing with each other, yet he still couldn't help but feel left out. But at least they all seemed to approve of him.  

Feuilly said a few other things, discussing technique and other stuff that Grantaire only understood small parts of. Courfeyrac was nodding at Feuilly as he elaborated, but Grantaire had the feeling that Courfeyrac also had no idea what was being said. When Feuilly was finished, Courfeyrac grinned: "Thank you, Feuilly. We're all happy with R, I think." 

_R_

That nickname unlocked a primal urge in Grantaire. He felt a dimmed rage at the sound of that name:

_R, I need you to help me with something._

_Nice shot, R. You're better than our sergeant!_

_R, take a look at this._

_Alright, are you ready R? Start the countdown!_

Always so friendly, urging, but not forceful. Montparnasse had made good use of that little name he called him to lure him right into the trap. And he'd walked right into it. After that, Montparnasse had never called him R again. 

Grantaire forced the memories to subside. He'd have to get used to that nickname again, used to being addressed like that. Courfeyrac and Feuilly were finishing their talk, and Courfeyrac turned to the last person to speak. "Enjolras?"

Grantaire followed Courfeyrac's example. Enjolras was standing there, hand on his hip, head cocked. He was looking at Grantaire, again with the stare he'd been using ever since Grantaire had shaken his hand. Doubtful, or maybe hopeful. At that moment Grantaire hoped he was leaning towards hopeful. If only he could understand the meaning of the stare. 

At last, Enjolras spoke up. He kept eye contact with Grantaire all the time. "If you would want to be our sniper, I would gladly have you join us." 

Grantaire let out a brief smile, but inside of him the first bitter feelings were starting to work their way up. He'd succeeded the fist test. Now, it was only a matter of time before he could actually get to work. 

He smiled at Enjolras, hoping it didn't come off as too cold, and answered: "Thank you, I gladly accept your offer." He added a small bow to play off a more friendly air.

"Welcome to Les Amis, then. Congratulations," Enjolras told him, "We'll still test some of your other skills, but as a sniper I think you qualify." He shot Grantaire a small smile. Next to him, Combeferre put on an encouraging smile. "Well, let's see how this goes." 

And like that, the ceremony was over. Courfeyrac clapped him on the shoulder, Feuilly congratulated him, though still a bit careful, and the five went back inside the building. Soon, all the other people of Les Amis he'd seen before were there, and Enjolras announced that Grantaire was now an official member, and that they would of course celebrate this. In response, all people cheered, and soon Grantaire raised his glass to them.  

He'd done it. He was in Les Amis. Soon, he would help them with robbing La Société Générale. 

_Now it's time to get to work_

He sipped his glass and amused himself with thoughts of Montparnasse being content with him when he returned from Les Amis with all their deaths on his name.  _He might even call me R again after this_ , he cynically joked to himself. For now, he would enjoy the name rolling off of Apollo's tongue. 

He had a decent time with some of the members, specifically the dark-haired girl from yesterday evening. When he admitted that he didn't know her name, she introduced herself as Éponine. Grantaire was having a good time talking to her. Her thick accent from the night before seemed to be a drunk thing, because she now talked to him with a normal voice. She was very nice, and he found himself easily enjoying her company. He didn't want to talk about her involvement in Les Amis. For now, he just wanted some normal conversation. 

After a while, her phone started ringing, and she hurried to see who was calling her. "Sorry, I need to get this." she apologised to Grantaire. "It's Cosette and she probably needs my help. She's always busy." She looked at Grantaire. "Is it okay if I come back to you later?" 

 _Who is this Cosette?_ "Sure, take your time," Grantaire answered. Éponine looked unsure. "Sure?" 

"I'll be fine. I can take care of myself for a few minutes."

Though maybe not wholly convinced, Éponine shot an apologetic smile. "Thanks, see you in a minute. Or just go talk to Courf, or Jehan or something. They're all nice." 

"Will do. Go answer your phone, the ringing's driving me crazy." She rolled her eyes at him before taking the phone and quickly walking away. "Cosette, you should just come by every now and then. You know how much money calling takes?" 

She stalked off into a corner to have a bit more quiet. And Grantaire was left alone. He stood up from his own table and was about to walk to Courfeyrac when he saw that Courfeyrac had stood up too. And then, in the corner of his eye, Grantaire could see him walking away. He turned to him, and saw that he was together with Enjolras and Combeferre. The trio quietly made their leave, walking out without so much as a goodbye. 

Grantaire's eyes followed them. Curiosity quickly got hold of him. He turned around to see if anyone was paying attention to him, but everyone was doing something else, not sparing him a second glance. He could easily follow Enjolras and the others. Or was it better to just stay here? 

Grantaire told himself that no, it was probably not worth the risk of being discovered eavesdropping, and was about to walk over to Joly or Bahorel, but then he remembered just why he was here. Not to make friends with these people, but to spy on them. Gather information for the Patron-Minette. And he made his decision.

He looked around in the room one last time to be sure no one was looking, and then started walking. And no one saw him as he silently made his leave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter was satisfying enough after three weeks. Personally I didn't like this one that much, but I felt that there had to be some kind of initiation for R, so i tried to make it interesting with some ¡¡conflict!! I hope I can update the next chapter quickly, see yall later


	6. The doors we close

The voices of Combeferre, Courfeyrac and Enjolras drifted off, and Grantaire tried to keep a good distance, yet still follow them as they got softer. Suddenly footsteps came to a halt and a door was opened, followed by falling into its lock. Grantaire hurried to the noise and found himself in front of a room with hushed voices talking from within. 

The first voice he heard he recognised as Combeferre's: "-something not right. He barely even looked when he shot. No matter what he says, he's been shooting more than he tries to let off." There was a pause, and then he continued. "Are you sure we can trust him?" 

"Dude, if you saw his flat, you would understand. Bahorel and I got death threats thrown our way for  _knocking on doors._ If I lived there, I would make sure to be able to defend myself too." 

Weren't it for the comment about knocking on doors, Grantaire wouldn't have been sure that Courfeyrac was the one talking: he sounded very different. All relaxed tone had left his voice. No grins and giggles. Dead serious. 

"Maybe, but that's not enough. He's more than just decent. Remember what Feuilly said: unnervingly accurate." Combeferre reminded Courfeyrac.

" _Almost_ unnervingly accurate. Besides, Feuilly is also really good with knives, I mean, is he really one to talk? People can be talented." 

"I would've thought so too, but there's one thing more," Combeferre declared. For a moment, it was quiet on the other side of the door. Grantaire held his breath. He was still like a statue, unable to move a muscle. 

Then, Combeferre explained:

"Think about last night; he drank a lot, he had to be half-carried to the villa. And some hours later, he shoots without mistake. That's not normal." 

And Grantaire felt his fear, his subconscious paranoia, come to life. Combeferre had watched him. And if things went on this way, Combeferre would investigate where Grantaire might've picked up his skill, and he would find out that Grantaire was supposed to have died from an explosion in Deir ez-Zor (despite Montparnasse's claim that he'd had Grantaire's and his records removed from the system, Grantaire didn't believe him, let alone trust him), and then he would find out that Grantiare was responsible for killing his entire regiment and that he was connected to Montparnasse. And what would happen then he couldn't begin to fathom. 

He backed away from the door. Why was he even listening to this? He needed to get out of this place! The shock momentarily dimmed his senses, and Grantaire's hand flew to his boot. He could just barge in, and kill these three. 

But Grantaire didn't even bother taking the knife into his palm. 

He lifted his hand from the hilt sticking out from the fabric. He would never be able to kill them. They outnumbered him. Besides, what good would it do? Montparnasse wouldn't be happy, he would only give Grantaire another job. Grantaire already learned that long ago: there were no rules to follow to please Montparnasse. There were only rules to gain his rage.

Frustrated, Grantaire combed his hair with his hands. He just wanted to get this over with: not just Les Amis, but Montparnasse. He was always walking on eggshells, but no matter what he wanted, he had no choice, no chance to change anything. A sudden feeling of helplessness overcame him, and he forced himself to listen to Combeferre, who wasn't done talking yet. "Enjolras, do you remember when we were having breakfast this morning when Joly and Grantaire came in?" Grantaire couldn't hear Enjolras, but he assumed he was nodding. It occurred to him that Enjolras hadn't said a word yet. Which was weird, because he seemed to doubt Grantaire more than anyone else.

"Well, when Feuilly took Grantaire with him," Combeferre continued, "I asked Joly how he had been that morning. Joly said he'd been up for two hours when he came to get him." 

For a moment there was silence. "But that means- then he's only slept three hours!" Enjolras sounded appalled, in a way it almost sounded like he was worried. Grantaire almost chuckled at the thought. 

"Are you sure?" Courfeyrac asked, and a hint of suspicion crept up in his voice.

Combeferre sighed. "Well, I wasn't there. So no, I don't know for sure. But whether he's slept three or five hours, the point still stands. He's far too focused for someone in his condition. He would have to shoot frequently to perform like this." He paused for a moment, "What I'm saying is that I think he's been involved in crime before." 

 _Field of crime, huh?_ Grantaire wasn't too happy with this observation, of course, _but at least he isn't mentioning the army._

Courfeyrac mumbled something incomprehensible. Then: "I guess that'd make sense, but what of it?" 

"Well, are we going to trust him? To me it's far too suspicious," Combeferre answered. "I mean, what do we know about him?"

"That he's a really good sniper," Courfeyrac dryly said, "and that we need a good sniper if we want to break into la Société Générale." 

"That's exactly the problem!" Grantaire could practically feel the tension in the room behind the door. Montparnasse had once said to him after fucking up yet another job 'Your talent to attract trouble is even more impressive than your talent for shooting'. And for good reason, as Grantaire later reflected. Every subsequent day here seemed to prove this. 

"Yeah but what did you expect!" Courfeyrac yelled, "That some idiot who'd never shot a gun in his life would apply? Of course we were going to get a good sniper. That was kind of the point."

"Courfeyrac," Combeferre grunted, "save me the cynicism for God's sake!" A painful silence followed, and after that Combeferre started talking again, now with a calmer tone: "I expected him to be good, but the thing is that he's fast, much faster than any of us. If he tries something, we wouldn't be able to stop him." 

Grantaire leaned in closer to the door, pressing himself up against it, and threw a rudimentary look over his shoulder. If someone saw him now, he was done for, but he still had the instinct to always scan surroundings. 

"Enjolras, you're our best shooter, but be honest," Combeferre said, "would you be able to shoot him down in time, should he try something?"

"Of course I would!" Enjolras said, offended. Combeferre scoffed.

"No you wouldn't. Be honest!" 

"What do you know?" 

"Enj," Courfeyrac interrupted, "you wouldn't. It's true, admit it." 

Grantaire listened with amusement. Apparently Apollo couldn't stand not being best. If Grantaire weren't eavesdropping, he'd use this to annoy Enjolras for the rest of his career. For Enjolras to deal with a superiority complex was something completely predictable. And hilarious as well. And after a swirl of objections from Enjolras and continuous debunking from the other two, Enjolras begrudgingly admitted: "Okay fine, he's better than me." 

"Exactly," Combeferre said. Courfeyrac snickered softly. "But that brings me back to the point: it's too dangerous to bring him along." 

"Well, what do you suggest, then? We lock him up?" Courfeyrac asked, now a bit more light-hearted than before. 

"Not exactly." 

"Well," Courfeyrac urged on. 

Combeferre hesitated. Or that was what the short interruption sounded like to Grantaire. He wondered why. 

"I think it would be better to postpone the heist for a bit, until we've done some extensive research on him-" 

"No." 

Baffled, Grantaire listened. Combeferre was saying something, but Courfeyrac's voice boomed over it, suddenly angry. "He's done nothing to provoke this! He is the one that volunteered and also the only one that can pull off what needs to be done." 

"Courf, we know nothing about him," Combeferre said pointedly. "And he has no reason to join us." 

"That's true," Enjolras commented. "He doesn't share our beliefs and ideals, he suddenly appears out of nowhere. Besides, he's very twitchy." 

It remained quiet after that.

"What, you didn't notice?" When there was no answer, Enjolras started summing up: "He flinches at unexpected touch, he just freezes up every now and then, almost like a black-out. He is wildly looking around from time to time." Grantaire was perplexed. He'd tried to cover up the flinching, and he had only frozen in front of Feuilly, for as far as he remembered. Sure, his thoughts wandered off every now and then, but was that so obvious? 

But then he remembered the green eyes following his every movement. Took a moment to bring the calculating gaze to mind again. Enjolras had been watching him intently.  _And apparently he saw more than I thought he would_. And that was unnerving, as well as scary, because it sounded as if Enjolras was suspecting trauma, which was an entirely different kind of horror from Combeferre finding out about his connections to Montparnasse, because his crimes within the Patron-Minette were nothing compared to what his war records contained.

"I also noticed," Courfeyrac softly said, almost whispered. "But I don't know. It might just be a tic. Or anxiety. There's plenty of possible explanations."

"And what if he's nervous because he knows he's doing something dangerous," Combeferre angrily said. "Like, trying to expose us to the police!"

"Why would he?" Courfeyrac matter-of-factly answered. "I don't get it. We wanted a sniper, we have one. So what if he doesn't agree with us? Maybe he's just in it for the money or something. Did you two not consider that?"

Combeferre let out a frustrated cry. "That's your problem, Courf. You trust everyone way too quickly! I don't understand why you find it so hard to believe that our applicant might be a threat to us if he can shoot-" 

"Oh you think I don't know that! Of course-"

"Quit it!"

Enjolras' voice was loud enough to startle Grantaire, and he stepped back from the door. The sound of his own footstep rang through his ears. 

The room went quiet. 

 _Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck._  Grantaire panicked. He froze and didn't even dare to breathe, too afraid to make any sound. His heart was beating maniacally.

Suddenly there were footsteps, and then the door creaked loudly. Grantaire braced himself, and tried to think of anything he could do. Still frozen on spot, Grantaire heard someone draw a long, deep sigh.

It was Enjolras, and after he had taken his deep breath he angrily addressed Courfeyrac and Combeferre: "You both need to calm down. This way, nothing's going to get solved." He sighed again, and Grantaire let out a breath of relief.  _He's only leaning against the door._  

"Right," Courfeyrac said, though he didn't sound remorseful. "So what do you think, Enjolras? Should we wait with the heist?"

Interested in what Enjolras had to say in this, Grantaire edged closer to the door again. After the brief moment of fear, he found himself too curious for his own good. It was no doubt going to get him into deep shit at some point. Now, though, he was already too deep in, and walking away would only bring more uncertainty to worry about. 

"I agree with Combeferre," Enjolras told them. "Grantaire is most definitely a dangerous risk we should take into account." Combeferre made a sound of approval, but Enjolras wasn't done yet. "But I feel it's useless to research him at the moment." 

Grantaire somewhat expected Combeferre or Courfeyrac to comment on this, but they didn't. They kept quiet, despite having a row only seconds earlier. Grantaire, as much as he hated to admit it, admired this part of Enjolras. Despite his lack of social skill as well as his shit personality he was able to make people listen to him. Whatever there was flawed in Enjolras' social interaction, moments like these made those flaws bleak in comparison, when his true leadership showed. Grantaire was unnerved at the many ways Enjolras resembled Montparnasse. Threatening, harsh, cold, yet still charming. No wonder he was so disdainful towards people like Grantaire. For Enjolras, Grantaire wasn't more than a tool. 

But then, what did he have to offer other than skills? Grantaire was not a person people liked. He knew this. And he didn't try to charm people because he knew that he lacked the charm they wanted, and people didn't seek him out for his sparkling personality, but for what he was able to provide them. And he didn't mind it, because it worked well enough for him.

Not like Enjolras or Montparnasse. They were the people who took service without paying for it. Awfully aware of their conventional good looks, and their sleek vocabularies, and so proficient with using them for exploitation. 

The admiration for Enjolras changed into contempt. Grantaire asked himself just why he was doing this? First he would rob a bank for Enjolras' gain, then he would eventually kill him for Montparnasse. And what did he get? Nothing. 

"Even if we were to retrace him and find damning things, it wouldn't change a whole lot. He wouldn't become less a threat. And if there is no damning evidence, that wouldn't change either." Enjolras concluded, pulling Grantaire out of his thinking: "So if we're thinking he's too dangerous to take along on the heist, we either have to keep him here the entire time, guarded, or we have to call off the heist." 

At that, Courfeyrac's silence stopped.

"Enj, you can't do that and you know it. La Société Générale is the last hurdle before the finish, or so to speak." He raised his voice."We need to do this. Robbing Paribas made the people wary, and now the corporations are getting nervous. La Société will be the final nail in the coffin. Two attacks in a row by the same group on similar enterprises will get the message across. People will notice it, and join us in our beliefs. We'll have the money necessary to take action. And this heist is risky." Courfeyrac had gotten worked up during his speech, so that he was sounding dead serious as he concluded: "we need R to succeed."

"Maybe, but we can't just trust him," Combeferre said. He sounded a lot calmer than before, but Grantaire just wondered how long that would last. "I just don't get how you can be calm knowing he's gonna shoot in our general direction, how you just want us to assume he won't kill us the moment he has the chance." 

"I agree with Combeferre," Enjolras announced. "We shouldn't risk our lives like that." 

"Why not?"

It was as if Courfeyrac had dropped a bomb. Grantaire listened in awe or shock, he couldn't tell which. And Enjolras and Combeferre needed a moment to process Courfeyrac's words as well. After a silence, he continued, and his voice sounded bitter. And that didn't fit at all.  

"Why wouldn't we be willing? I mean, we decide that people get killed if they do this and that, seems only fair we would die ourselves as well if it was needed."

"Courfeyrac, that's not the same-" Combeferre started, but he was cut off. 

"Yes it is. Killing for a cause but not being willing to die yourself? That's hypocritical! And if the both of you don't dare, I'll do it." Courfeyrac then addressed Enjolras again: "Enjolras, this is a golden opportunity to make a change. You know it, Ferre knows it. If we don't do this, we might as well start all over again." Courfeyrac pleaded, Grantaire realised. He wanted to do this. 

"What are you suggesting, Courf?" Enjolras asked carefully. 

"I'm saying," Courfeyrac explained, "we should do this heist, and just have someone near Grantaire to stop him should he start anything." He paused a moment. "And that would be me."

"Courf, that's not gonna fucking happen," Combeferre said with a stale voice. Underneath that stale, Grantaire heard worry. "If he really is planning to kill us, he'll start with you. You're not a great shooter. What are you gonna do? Blow him up while sitting next to him?" Now Combeferre was the one pleading. Grantaire started getting the feeling that this was not about him anymore, but more personal. He listened anyway. _Might be useful in the future_.

"I'm a better shooter," Enjolras supplied as well. "It would be better for me to stay with Grantaire." 

 _Oh God no_ , Grantaire thought. He wasn't all too happy at the thought of having to talk and sit with Enjolras, however long they would be required to. Because Enjolras was an asshole would see everything as an attempt to shoot. And dear God, he wasn't ready for that.

"No," Courfeyrac objected, and Grantaire thanked him silently. "You're the leader. It would alter the plan too much to have you sit still while the others break in." 

"But why should it be you?" Combeferre asked. Courfeyrac answered simply: "Well, it should be one of us three, as it's our decision, therefore our responsibility. Enj is our leader, too valuable, and you are too important for gathering info and intel. And well, I do the bombs, you can easily replace that." He casually said. 

These past five minutes had uncovered Courfeyrac like different layers of the earth to Grantaire. Was this Courfeyrac beneath the grins, the smiles, the jokes? Just someone completely radical and dedicated? Measuring worth of people by skill? It disgusted Grantaire. If there was one person on earth right now he didn't want to compare to Montparnasse, it had to be Courfeyrac. Sweet, friendly Courfeyrac, who was trying so hard to trust and make others trust him, the first person Grantaire had met after a year who didn't treat him like some tool. It seemed unjust to draw a line between him and Montparnasse, source of all the shit Grantaire had been through. But he couldn't deny there was one. 

"Besides, he trusts me."

Those words came as an icy shock to Grantaire.  

"Small wonder. You two are getting really friendly and it's been half a day," Combeferre said. "But you're right, I guess." Then, he added: "I'm almost starting to wonder whether you can kill him when he fires." 

"Oh," Courfeyrac darkly reacted, "that's not true.I want to trust him, but that doesn't mean I do."

Those words hurt.

"If he would shoot us, I would be sad. Though I don't think he will, by the way. However," Courfeyrac continued," this isn't about me and him. If he hurts any of you, any of Les Amis, I won't hesitate a second."

 Grantaire couldn't hear any more. He felt that the conversation was wrapping up, and that he should leave. Quickly summarising what he'd learned, he walked back to the breakfast room; Seemingly no one trusted him, he was already making himself suspicious, and they were going to rob La Société Générale with him under supervision. If he could somehow inform Montparnasse, this would be an easy job. But he was still not allowed to leave this villa, so he had no idea how to get it to Montparnasse- 

"And where were you?" Joly asked him. Grantaire snapped out of his quick brainstorm and inspected Joly's posture. He had his arms crossed and was looking at Grantaire questioningly, but not hostile. Just curious.

In response, Grantaire shrugged. He had to think of something, and quickly. Why had he been stupid enough to not make up an excuse for himself? Usually he wasn't this sloppy. 

So he blurted out the first excuse he could think of. "I needed the bathroom." Then added: "I think I've had too many drinks last night."

Grantaire hoped that Joly would buy it. Luckily, he apparently looked miserable enough for Joly to believe him, because Joly shot him a sympathetic smile and clapped him on the shoulder. "I was already wondering when your hangover would take its toll. You look terrible."

"Thanks." Grantaire made sure to keep the sarcasm in his tone thick to hide his relief. Joly chuckled, and stood up. "Need help? Some paracetamol?" He put his hand on the small of Grantaire's back. 

Grantaire was about to reply that yes, overdosing on paracetamol would probably make his morning better, when the door behind them opened. Enjolras walked in, on his own. Grantaire tore his gaze away from Joly, who kept his hand on Grantaire's shoulder. 

Enjolras looked at them, his eyebrows raised. 

"Grantaire's having trouble with his permillage," Joly dryly explained. Enjolras nodded, and then he turned an unimpressed gaze to Grantaire. "I see." Grantaire, in return, shot Enjolras a sarcastic thumbs-up: "Don't worry, I'll be fine."

Enjolras crossed his arms. "That's good, because we still have some things to talk about." A stale voice, not allowing any talking back. Joly looked as if he were ready to argue, but Enjolras stared him down until he sighed. 

"You're not feeling sick or something, right?" Grantaire shook his head. Joly nodded. "Okay, and no lightheadedness?" 

Enjolras seemingly had no time or patience for this, because he complained "Joly, wrap it up, please," with such irritation in his voice it sounded as if he was in physical pain keeping himself from dragging Grantaire away. 

"Enjolras, just a sec," Joly answered, equally annoyed. He quickly touched Grantaire on the shoulder: "If you need something, just shout."

Before Grantaire could even respond and thank Joly for being kind, Enjolras was standing right next to him. "Ready?" he asked, mere inches away from Grantaire's ear. The sudden sound, combined with a body standing so close to him, was enough to startle Grantaire. He flinched back. 

 _Shit_. He quickly took a look at both Joly and Enjolras; Joly was seemingly startled by Grantaire's reaction, and he was already pulling his hand away from Grantaire's shoulder. Enjolras, though, wasn't looking startled at all; his face was contorted in a frown, and he seemed lost in thoughts. 

 _Gotta act fast._  Grantaire breathed out, put on an as convincing as possible smile, and turned to Enjolras. "It's called personal space, you know?" He raised his eyebrow at Enjolras, 'playfully' gesturing him to back away. 

Enjolras snapped out of whatever trance he was in, and moved away a bit. He stared at Grantaire, effectively making eye contact. At first with a puzzling gaze, but then his eyes softened. "Sorry," he softly answered, and it sounded weirdly genuine. 

The sudden change in tone was confusing. Grantaire tried to find a reason for the complete one-eighty Enjolras pulled with this out-of-the-blue friendliness, but he could only think of the option that Enjolras hadn't thought about the effect of coming too close. In the end, he stuttered out a "thanks", and then "lead the way." 

Enjolras nodded curtly at him, and suddenly the careful approach from moments before was gone again. He turned on his heels and walked away.

 _That's strange_ , Grantaire thought, as he followed Enjolras out of the room. During the short walk, Enjolras didn't try to talk to him, but Grantaire noticed the occasional glances from the corner of his eyes. As if he was checking on him. And every now and then, Grantaire couldn't help but glance back, to watch his face, ever serious and surrounded by curls. Only to look away as soon as Enjolras' eyes darted back to him.  

They continued this until they reached their destination. Enjolras, funnily enough, lead Grantaire to the room he was eavesdropping on only minutes ago. When he opened the door, Grantaire could see Courfeyrac and Combeferre still standing there, talking to each other. When Enjolras and Grantaire entered, they looked up. Grantaire noticed that they were standing in front of a table, with a map on it. And Grantaire took a wild guess that that was the map he'd seen earlier that morning, before he went with Feuilly to get ready for his small initiation. Courfeyrac beckoned him to come in. "Hey, R."

Grantaire obliged, and took a look at the map. "What's up?"

"We need to talk about this heist. It's pretty risky, and requires good coordination and communication," Enjolras anwered, already standing next to him. And Grantaire couldn't help but notice how Enjolras was keeping his distance.  

He pointed to a certain corner, pompously decorated with (to Grantaire meaningless) dots, crosses and lines. "This is the biggest location of la Société Générale. Our objective." Enjolras clarified. "You are here, with Courfeyrac." 

Grantaire could see that Enjolras was pointing somewhere, but he wasn't focused on the map, because something else was capturing his attention: Enjolras wasn't looking at the map, but at Grantaire. Or looking; he was right out staring at Grantaire.  _Doesn't he notice that he's way too intense when it comes to eye contact?_

Grantaire banned the thought immediately and averted his gaze to the map. He saw that Enjolras was pointing at a small block on the map, opposite of the excessively marked building on the corner of the street.  

 _And what am I doing there?_ Grantaire didn't ask the question, as he was sure he'd get the answer sooner or later. And he was right. Enjolras turned to him, and once again didn't break eye contact as he talked to Grantaire. And though Grantaire wondered whether he was just seeing things, he felt as though Enjolras only did this with him. 

"The camera's within are not easily accessible; you need a code and card to activate and deactivate them. So here's what you need to do." He pulled out a few papers from under the map and handed them to Grantaire. Grantaire took them and examined them briefly. They were pictures of the inside of la Société Génerale. Or, better said, of the reception. 

"You have to shoot the reception cameras from across the building. There's five in total. That way, Combeferre, Joly and I can enter the bank without running the risk of being caught on camera." 

"Well," Grantaire began, "I can do it... but why don't you just delete the footage? Wouldn't that be easier?" 

Enjolras folded his arms on the table, sporting a more serious look on his face, if that was possible. "We can't run any risks. The less footage there is of us, the better." He continued: "The glass isn't bulletproof, so you can easily shoot through it." He stopped himself from ranting. "You  _can_ do this, right?" 

Grantaire allowed himself to smile lazily. "Yeah, o' course. Don't worry about it." He wasn't feeling nervous about it in the least. The only thing he needed was a drink. 

A somewhat unsure frown appeared on Enjolras' face. Funnily enough, Grantaire didn't even feel the need to feel offended. Then, something that hadn't been brought up came to his attention.  

"But isn't there a security guy? I mean, it's one the biggest banks in Paris, surely they've got someone doing night shift?" he noted. "If I go shooting cameras, they'll surely pull an alarm or something. What to do about that?" 

Enjolras crossed his arms, and he sighed, as if it was merely an annoying extra obstacle rather than a real threat. "True, but we've thought about that. Right?" He had turned to Courfeyrac, who nodded. He quickly explained: "We'll just use a strong tranquilliser to knock that person out. From a gun. I've already found a good chemical to use." He attempted a light-hearted smile at Grantaire to ease his mind. "Enjolras will immediately shoot him when he enters, so if we're quick enough, the night porter won't be a problem."

Courfeyrac again smiled at Grantaire, but Grantaire didn't return it. He only stood there, staring at Courfeyrac, and then at Combeferre, and finishing with Enjolras, all of them receiving a look of shock. That was their plan? Using a tranquilliser on a man they didn't know anything about? 

"And what if the night porter wakes up before you guys are gone?" The question left his lips without his permission. Enjolras' head quirked up to Grantaire, and his expression changed from focussed to annoyed: "Then we'll have to make sure they don't pose a threat to us." He said, and the way he talked to Grantaire was as if he was explaining a seven-year-old child something. And Grantaire felt his anger grow hot. 

He was being patronised for criticising the fact that someone claiming to care about the work force would kill a person because he was at the wrong place at the wrong time. He straightened himself too so that he stood face to face with Enjolras. 

"And you would kill one of those you care so much about? You would kill an innocent man for nothing but bad luck of being there when you decide to attack?" He asked angrily.

"You can't always help everyone." Enjolras dully answered. Grantaire felt the thorough need to punch him hard enough to split skin. 

"Besides," Courfeyrac interrupted, "we'll make sure to use enough so that the night porter won't wake up." 

"Right, because it's totally not like people can only take in a limited dose of any medicine." Grantaire scoffed. "You think I haven't had chemistry in school? I know that the limit depends per person, that for example the weight, sex, health and muscle mass play a part in that limit. You can't decide a good amount and be sure it's safe." 

Courfeyrac looked taken aback, but didn't say anything anymore. He looked at the ground, avoiding Grantaire's gaze. Grantaire felt so angry. Courfeyrac was lying to him to shut him up. It wasn't that he was offended. He could take being talked down to. What he couldn't take was this feigned innocence. This idea that they had no ill intentions. 

"Grantaire, we're done talking about this," Enjolras sneered, and he angrily slammed his hands on the table. Grantaire, slightly alarmed at the anger in his voice, backed away a bit. "If you are opposed to killing people, you should've stuck to shooting birds. It's serious now. We are not just fucking around." 

When Grantaire didn't answer, he continued as if nothing had happened. "By now, the police have probably gotten notified. We'll block the entrance, but they will still break in. Courfeyrac and Grantaire will try to keep them out when they arrive." Enjolras told them. "The weak spot is the neck. Aim for that."

 _So we still have to kill people_ , Grantaire reflected. Even if the night porter was somehow spared, these policemen still were going to die. So much for justice.

"Courfeyrac, you'll tell when it's time to leave the rooftop, after which the two of you will head over to the back of La Société," Enjolras explained. "Marius comes to the back with his car as soon as we're"- as he said this, he gestured to himself and Combeferre- "gone. 

All the while, Enjolras had avoided Grantaire, only looked at Courfeyrac. And Grantaire noticed the obvious warning in his eyes. He was telling Courfeyrac to be careful.  _You can't trust him, be careful_. 

"We'll gather at Avenue de Victor Hugo near Arc de Triomphe." 

And just like that, Enjolras stood up from the map, and exchanged a look with Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac nodded in response, and then walked over to Grantaire.

"Come with me, will you? There's some things you need to know." 

Grantaire was in no position to refuse, anyway. He complied, "okay," and followed Courfeyrac out of the room. From the corner of his eye, he spotted Enjolras silently staring at him. 

_What the hell is he looking at?_

In response, he cocked his eyebrow, and Enjolras averted his gaze. 

 **

For a while, Courfeyrac just lead him along in quiet. Eventually he started chatting amiably with him about small things. Grantaire kind of wanted to ask where they were going, but he saw no reason why. So he just talked back and they settled with comfortable topics and simple stories. Most input came from Courfeyrac. Grantaire didn't feel very motivated to talk. Partially because he felt nervous about this heist, partly because he was angry at Courfeyrac and Enjolras.But mostly because he was mad at himself. It had been so stupid of him to challenge Enjolras, and he knew that, but he just had to open his mouth again. He told himself once again that he had to get rid of that competitive urge to always question what he deemed wrong. 

A byproduct of Montparnasse's control. Although Grantaire had no choice but to obey Montparnasse, he never declined an opportunity to oppose him with his opinion. Even though Montparnasse had tried to quite literally beat it out of him through Claquesous and Gueulemer, he'd never succeeded; Grantaire had always remained defiant. But now, he wondered whether it wouldn't have been better to have let Montparnasse take it from him. He was really drawing excessive attention. 

Courfeyrac stopped him in the middle of the hallway. He looked over Grantaire's shoulder from where they came, and then at Grantaire. 

"I wanted to get you away for a moment." He smiled softly at Grantaire. "As I said, we got a few rules for heists and other stuff that you should know about. I thought we might as well do that now, because you needed to get away from Enjolras." He grinned at that. 

Grantaire sighed. So he was already establishing himself as that guy. "I should probably work on that." 

Courfeyrac shrugged. "Not necessarily. You just need to get used to each other. Enjolras is just not a very trusting person. It takes a while for him to get used to people."

At the moment, Grantaire was fed up with Enjolras. So he decided to stop beating around the bush and address the topic at hand. "What do I need to know about your heist plan?"

"Oh yeah," Courfeyrac chimed. "Sorry, forgot about that temporarily. Well, we've got a few rules about communication." 

As he said it, he fished something out of his pocket. In the back of his mind, Grantaire vaguely wondered whether it was a gun and halfheartedly expected Courfeyrac to tell him that he knew Grantaire was a spy all along. Instead, Courfeyrac pulled out a phone and handed it to Grantaire. 

It looked so new Grantaire didn't dare take it from Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac scoffed and tossed the phone to Grantaire, who barely caught it with both his hands. "Keep your humility. Everyone has a phone. We need it to communicate. Do you think it's easy to keep track of everyone's locations when it's ten people spread across Paris and the surrounding area?"

Grantaire stared at the phone and pressed the home button. The screen lit up, and he could see that the phone was already prepared and installed. He stared at Courfeyrac, hoping to get an explanation. When he didn't get one, he decided just to ask. 

"Well, what are the rules, then?"  

In response, Courfeyrac fished another phone out of his pocket and pressed the home button. He scrolled a bit and then turned his screen to Grantaire. On the screen, a chat was displayed, with several messages. "This is our chatgroup. We all have a certain kind of code. When you go on a mission or go deliver some stuff or something like that, we don't know where you are. These phones are untraceable, so the rule is : Once every twenty-four hours, we leave a message in this chat. Everyone has a specific line we use. When we sent that, the others know that you are safe and nothing has gone wrong." He looked at Grantaire, and from the look Grantaire could understand that this was a very serious rule that needed to be followed. 

"Okay, so just anything? Like a quote or some crappy one-liner? Or does it need to be specific?" He joked. Courfeyrac laughed, but it was more of a polite laugh and he clearly wanted Grantaire to remain serious. "Sure, whatever you want," Courfeyrac confirmed, "as long as you send that one specific message once every twenty-four hours. You can also send other stuff in the chat group, but it's mandatory to send the check-up message, alright? If you don't send it, we'll assume something happened. If it has been over a day since the last time, we'll assume someone has taken your phone. Did you get that?"

Grantaire nodded. "Yeah, all clear."

Courfeyrac took a breath, and then he continued: "Now, should something happen, there's an emergency button on the phone." He tilted the phone so that the right side faced upwards. Grantaire inspected the side and spotted a small button far down the side. 

"If you are in serious trouble, press it twice. We'll receive a notification and come get you as soon as we can." He shot a look at Grantaire and held the phone up to his face. "Don't press it for fun. It's only for absolute emergencies. When we receive a notification, it means someone is either kidnapped or in a dangerous situation they can't get away from." He checked whether Grantaire was still paying attention before continuing.

"Another important thing you need to know: safe houses. If you are on the run and can't return to our hideout, go there. They are locked with a code, one code per safe house." He then pointed at Grantaire: "You don't know codes or locations yet, so for now, just make sure you're never alone. If, for example, we can't get away from the police during the heist, stay with me and I will get us to a safe house." 

"Okay," Grantaire said.

"Good," Courfeyrac answered. "In every safe house is a button. Always press it; that way, we know that you can't get back yet. Also send a text about what's going on and whether you need help. If you lost your phone and we only get a signal from the safe house, we'll come and get you as quick as we can. If you don't have a phone, never leave the safe house until we're there."

They were all simple rules, but Grantaire could tell that they were all necessary to ensure safety of everyone. Patron-Minette probably had similar rules for the people who actually had phones provided for them. Still, Grantaire doubted that Montparnasse cared enough about his members to give such instructions as these.

"When things go completely south, we all hide. When we're all in a safe house, we'll discuss our next plan over phone." He once again looked at Grantaire and urged him to show that he understood. Grantaire knew that it was his turn to confirm that he had indeed understood what had been told to him. 

"That's a lot of rules." He lamely commented. 

"Well, we want to make sure that everyone is safe. There's only eleven of us, every person is valuable." Courfeyrac responded. He then lowered his phone and let it slip into his pocket. A clear sign that he'd told all there was to know about the phone. Now he gave all of attention to Grantaire and locked eyes with him. Grantaire knew that whatever was coming now was either extremely important or very personal. He braced himself and listened attentively. Courfeyrac started talking again.

"The most important thing about Les Amis: we are anonymous. Our entire gang revolves around that anonymity. If our names somehow go viral, we scatter and start new lives. Which brings me to the most important rule," he emphasised by putting a hand on Grantaire's shoulder, looking him sternly in the eye. 

Grantaire nodded.

"Now that you're a part of us, our names and identities are your biggest secret. We never tell anyone the names. We all have normal lives, and anyone can find us." He drew in a breath. "It might be that you get arrested by police, or maybe you get kidnapped. And it doesn't matter what you're promised or whatever they threaten to do to you, you never tell them our names. If people know who we are, we're done for. If we notice you're gone, we'll come to find you. And we'll be there within a day. We'll come save you. Until then, you have to keep quiet, no matter the cost." 

He released Grantaire from his grip, but didn't break eye contact. 

"Understood?" 

At that moment, a lot went through Grantaire's head. Everything Courfeyrac had just described played in his head. He could almost feel the pain of torture for information. And his rational mind told him that this was probably his last chance to walk away, run for his life and Montparnasse and start again

But his emotional mind reminded him of the phone, of the fact that people were looking out for him. How these people were willing to come for him if he was in danger. And in that hallway, Grantaire made the final decision.

He knew their names already. There was no going back.

"Understood."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I use 'the biggest location of La Société Générale' I mean that LSG is a chain of banks throughout the country, but the biggest bank is in Paris. By the way I have no idea how their security works but I feel they probably have some form of night shift.  
> Avenue de Victor Hugo, im so original   
> This chapter wasn't beta-ed (? spelling man) so there might be some mistakes in it. forgive me. Anyway, thanks for all the kudos and over 500 hits! Literally blushed when I saw that. Y'all make my day


	7. Sound of every day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey hello! happy to have you here. Just wanna thank you for the kudos and comments left on the previous chapter (i love those long comments a lot) because they really inspired me. Also changed the tags a bit, I mean that's why I said they'll be added as I go on. And just for clarification: there are in fact walkie-talkies you can use in groups instead of pairs, I had no idea but it did make the writing that much easier so long live technology. Alright now you can go read. I hope you'll enjoy <3

For the third time that evening, Grantaire shifted position against a bannister on the rooftop across la Société Générale, trying to shield himself from the cold breeze flying over. Despite the week-long preparation for the heist, he still hadn't visited his apartment, and all warm clothing he had was the jumper he'd worn when he met Les Amis. Its shitty quality plus the stronger wind up high made it hard to stay warm. When another sudden gust of icy wind hit him, Grantaire shivered again and crossed his arms over his chest. He looked over at Courfeyrac, standing opposite him with a walkie-talkie. "Can you ask if we're ready to go yet?" 

Courfeyrac clicked his tongue in response. "I asked two minutes ago, R. Just wait until they say the word." Grantaire just rolled his eyes and let out a long sigh. "If I knew it would take this long, I would've stayed down a bit longer," he muttered, only half-joking. Courfeyrac offered him a smile that said 'oh really?' and walked over to him to look down on the street, storing his walkie-talkie away in his pocket meanwhile. Grantaire followed his eyes, though he didn't think he would really find out anything himself, since he only knew his own part in this operation. And as he expected, he didn't notice anything. So he turned to Courfeyrac, who looked around a bit longer, but eventually shook his head. "Can't really see anything, but I don't think it'll take much longer. 

He then turned his head to Grantaire. "Why do you even care? Are you that eager to infiltrate one of the richest banks in France, a very risky move, may I add?" 

Grantaire just shrugged, and curled his arms around his waist a little tighter when a sudden cold went through his jumper. "No, I'm cold, just wanna get moving."  

"Maybe you should've considered taking a coat along," Courfeyrac cynically answered, throwing his hands in the air to show off his own jacket before propping himself up against the bannister as well. Grantaire shifted a bit to have Courfeyrac sit right of him so that he would catch some of the wind. "I don't have a coat," he protested. Courfeyrac hummed in response and shifted closer to him. 

"My God, why am I paired with a whiny bitch who's feeling a little cold," Courfeyrac countered with an exaggerated sigh. "I'm almost tempted to actually call Enjolras and beg him to get on with it," he grinned, and Grantaire was smiled back at him. "If you say so." 

In response, Courfeyrac shoved him. Which earned a laugh from Grantaire. 

"But seriously, how are you feeling? Apart from cold? Still okay and all?"

Grantaire shrugged. "Well," he started, "pretty good, I guess." He carefully stood up from the bannister and turned around to face the bank. He raised his gun -a very simple format, because he only had to shoot a small distance- and tried pointing it to a camera through the glass. Because that was what really mattered: Courfeyrac wanted to know if he was ready to do what was expected of him. "A bit nervous," he added.

Courferyac hummed in response. "Guess that was something to be expected, huh? You look pretty nervous, no offense." Grantaire nodded, but couldn't shrug the comment off so easily. Ever since Grantaire had overheard Courfeyrac and his two henchmen talking about him, Courfeyrac seemed to have changed. He still was friendly and teasing, but it felt much more calculating than before. Grantaire had not missed how he would suddenly appear to try to 'scare' him, and how it was becoming increasingly difficult to relax because of the need to constantly expect surprises like these. Grantaire wondered whether he was just seeing things, but the continuous remarks about how he always seemed stressed, the small touches, they just didn't feel like the playful jabs he used to take them for. Ever since Enjolras' remark about his mannerisms, Grantaire felt more doubtful about every little gesture Courfeyrac made. It could turn really ugly if they started getting wilder suspicions. 

Suddenly, his hands were grabbed. Grantaire was already halfway pulling his hands to his chest before he stopped himself. _Goddamnit!_ You'd think he was getting better at this by now.

He looked up at Courfeyrac with a sharp gaze. "What are you doing?" he brusquely asked, despite an attempt to not show his discomfort with the movement. Courfeyrac looked up at him, and he sincerely smiled at him: "You need to relax." 

Grantaire scoffed: "I'm  _fine_ ," and he wanted to pull his hands away, but Courfeyrac firmly held him. "R, you have a death grip on your gun." 

Grantaire wanted to object to that, but he decided against it and actually took a moment to look at his hands. And God, Courfeyrac was right: his knuckles were white around his gun. 

Courfeyrac chuckled softly, and pried Grantaire's fingers off the handle, delicately as if he was scared to tear them off. Grantaire silently allowed it. It was only then that he noticed how cold his hands were. And then he immediately realised that he could use that to his advantage. 

"I'm not stressed, my hands are just really cold," he said as calmly as he managed. He folded his hands into each other and shot Courfeyrac a smile as he started rubbing to get the blood flow running again. Courfeyrac looked at his hands, and then back at Grantaire. He rolled his eyes. "Well, we gotta do something about that." And before Grantaire could protest, Courfeyrac pulled Grantaire's hands back into his own, warming them. He smirked at Grantaire and winked. "Don't get used to it. Next time I'll just give you a jacket of mine. This is a one-time-occasion only." 

Grantaire had to laugh, despite his nervousness from only moments before. "Lucky me," he dryly said. "And now I get to borrow your clothes? How romantic." 

"I know. Robbing banks in the cold is the perfect set-up for a blockbuster rom-com." Courfeyrac stretched the word 'perfect' with a long rolling 'r'. 

"Well, at least it's an original concept," Grantaire shrugged. Courfeyrac hummed in agreement with a smile. And Grantaire allowed himself to enjoy the warm, soft touch. It felt weird to have such a gesture aimed at him. Courfeyrac was very delicate, and Grantaire had forgotten how it was to be treated kindly. And now, in the middle of a job, this seemed to be the wrong time for anything like this. Yet, it felt comforting, and he couldn't stop himself from relaxing under the warmth of Courfeyrac's hands, even if it was only to warm his hands so to make them agile for the heist.

"Is everyone in position?"

Startled from the sudden voice, Grantaire jumped up. "Jesus Christ," he breathed, and he wasn't sure whether he was cursing at Enjolras or himself. Courfeyrac laughed: "Well, you really are nervous, aren't you?" He pressed the recording button. "R and I are ready."

Again the accusation. The soft feeling from before disappeared, and he involuntarily tensed up a bit, but he forced himself to snort and shove Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac shoved him back and returned his attention to the walkie-talkie. 

"Are you sure?" 

"Trust me, it's fine. We're good to go."

"Yeah, okay," Enjolras answered,sounding somewhat dry, "Grantaire, does that go for you too?" 

Grantaire nodded. "Yeah, yeah, all set," he confirmed. He waited for a response, but it remained quiet on the other side. Uncertain, he muttered, more to himself than to Courfeyrac: "well, okay," and then focused his barrel on the small camera he could see. He loosely put his finger on the trigger and disabled the safety with his other hand. 

Then, Courfeyrac asked him: "Ready? " 

"Ready," Grantaire confirmed.

"And your hands are not too cold?" 

"Not anymore." Grantaire smiled at that. 

"Okay," Courfeyrac agreed. "Jehan, cameras off?" 

After a bit of static, the voice of -apparently- Jehan replied: "Yep." Courfeyrac nodded, then proceeded to ask Bossuet whether he was ready. Bossuet affirmed as well. Grantaire took a deep breath and gripped his gun tightly, feeling the moment of impact approach. He didn't say a word as Courfeyrac checked everyone's position. Somewhere in his mind he hoped for someone not being ready. 

And then, Courfeyrac addressed the last group: "Enjolras, are you and the others ready?" 

Static. 

Then, "yes, is everyone else?" 

Courfeyrac cast one last glance at Grantaire, and then responded: "Yeah, ready?" 

Grantaire held his breath. He felt the beginnings of a rush envelop him: stronger pulse clench in his muscles, the only thought in his head the cameras down there inside the building. He was in position, focused and on point. All he needed was the permission to shoot.

And then, Enjolras responded to Courfeyrac. "Tell Grantaire to begin." Then, a lot more hesitant: "Are you absolutely sure you guys are gonna make it?" 

What happened next, Grantaire did not see coming. He waited for Courfeyrac answering Enjolras that everything was alright, but it didn't come. Confused, he turned his focus away from La Société Générale to check why Courfeyrac wasn't answering. And when he looked up, he saw Courfeyrac was looking at him intently. 

Anxiety gnawed at his stomach, but it didn't win the battle of Grantaire's concentration: his body was in a state of frenzy, and all that was on his mind was raw determination of doing his job. Courfeyrac had his thumb on the recording button, so Grantaire answered. "Enjolras, please. We're ready." 

It was frightfully silent for a few seconds. Grantaire wondered what was wrong. Courfeyrac had seemingly snapped out of whatever trance he was in, and was not staring at Grantaire anymore, but at the walkie-talkie.

"Okay," Enjolras softly said, "Start the heist." 

Corufeyrac didn't respond. He grabbed his own gun and held the walkie-talkie in his other hand. "Grantaire?"

"Yeah?" He didn't turn his eyes to him. Still, he knew that Courfeyrac was looking at him.

"Let's get started," Courfeyrac said. Grantaire only nodded, and took one deep breath. 

Then, he pulled the trigger, and the glass shattered. 

Screams filled the night as people started running around. Quickly, Grantaire released a second bullet from his gun and hit the second camera. And like that, he quickly shot again and again, firing without a break and only minimally moving the gun. Next to him, he could hear Courfeyrac talking to Bossuet. And just as he released the last bullet and saw the only remaining small black square in the building break apart in to pieces, thick white smoke rose and spread with a hissing noise. 

He looked up at Courfeyrac, and unconsciously smiled in relief. Courfeyrac broke into a relieved grin. "Good job." He grabbed him softly by the arm and clumsily pulled him down. Grantaire let himself be dragged along. With the extasy levels he had right now, he couldn't think anyway. The heist had begun.

**

For a while, Grantaire only stared at the bank beneath him. He tried to spot the trio going in, but when the smoke thinned out enough to see through, the reception was empty. After that, he kept quiet and put safety on his gun again to let it dangle in his hand. Courfeyrac, on the other hand, kept his gun on stand-by the entire time. Grantaire knew why: to make sure that he didn't attempt anything. They didn't talk to each other, only sat in decently comfortable silence. It was only when the faint sound of sirens echoed above the roofs of Paris that Grantaire raised his gun, prepared it for shooting again and sprang back into action. 

As he tried to decide on the direction from which the sound was coming, Courfeyrac settled next to him. "Don't start shooting until someone tries to go in," he reminded Grantaire. "And aim for the neck."

"I know." And just as he said that, the first lights rounded the corner. Grantaire watched them growing brighter as they neared. Courfeyrac moved away again and stood up to view the street. The loud sound made it hard to hear Courfeyrac yell into the walkie-talkie: "Everyone, the cops have arrived. Combeferre, Joly, Enjolras, how are you guys doing?" 

A voice came from the walkie-talkie, but Grantaire couldn't hear it over the sirens. But he could hear the tone of the voice. And it sounded wrong. Very alarmed. 

"Too soon?" Courfeyrac asked, and there was a hint of fear in his voice, "well, Feuilly prepare yourself. Bossuet, try to get to Feuilly." 

Someone responded, probably Bossuet: "I'll come as quick as possible. On my way." After that, the voices died out. 

Courfeyrac grabbed his gun. The cars were now in front of the building and people started trickling out of them one by one. Some cars drove past the building, probably to take care of the back door. 

"Combeferre and the others are making their way to the vault now," Courfeyrac informed Grantaire. "Shouldn't take more than a couple of minutes." Then, his attention shifted: "Looks like they're starting to break in." 

Grantaire turned his eyes to the direction Courfeyrac pointed at, and saw that there were indeed policemen carefully edging closer to the doors of the bank. He could see them luring inside. They had guns as well, but from the small format Grantaire bet they had small range. Not enough to reach him. 

 

"Okay," Courfeyrac started, "remember: don't shoot the cars. Change position as much as possible and don't stop shooting unless I say so." 

Grantaire cocked his gun. "Got it." Courfeyrac made an approving sound, and then a silence eerier and heavier than any Grantaire had ever experienced fell between them. Two pairs of eyes silently followed the movements of the policemen slowly making the beginnings of entering. And dread settled in Grantaire's stomach. his mind wouldn't let him forget; he was killing innocent people. And every second that lasted was one more postponing a kill, but he knew it wouldn't last forever. 

And it eventually came; one brave man and his colleague -both dressed in bulletproof vests that only covered up to the collar bone- came to a halt in front of the door, and one landed a swift kick to the door. 

Without as much as a flinch, Courfeyrac's fingers tightened around the trigger, and the man fell down backwards. Grantaire's bullet reached the other a breath later, only his was buried in the back of the head rather than the neck, granting its victim a quicker death. He and Courfeyrac ducked down under the edge at the same time. Grantaire could hear screams ring in the streets. He could feel his head spin, filtering out the horror his ears picked up. 

"Change," commanded Courfeyrac. Grantaire obeyed, and both started moving. Grantaire chose the corner of the roof as his new position. He carefully peered over the edge to take a look. He saw several policemen gaze around with guns in their hands. From the looks of it they weren't entirely sure where the shots had come from. He gazed at Courfeyrac, who mouthed "shoot" at him. He immediately did as he was told and made a woman nearing the door his target. When she fell to the floor, he took care of the man next to her, and the one next to him. After that he changed position again. His gut told him that the police had to have at least a general direction pinned down by now. If he shot again, they would probably be on the roof within minutes. He looked up at Courfeyrac for instruction, but only then did he notice that his partner wasn't shooting. 

Courfeyrac was fervently talking into the walkie-talkie with a hushed, but clipped tone. Grantaire leaned in to pick up what Courfeyrac was saying.

"You're still in there? R and I can't clear them out much longer." There was a pause, and Grantaire could see Courfeyrac's face growing into a grimace. "You have to get out. The police will probably break in any moment now." Another voice broke through the conversation: "There's too many here! Bossuet, where are you?" That was Feuilly, and he sounded troubled. 

Then Courfeyrac noticed Grantaire looking up at him, and his eyes narrowed. Grantaire saw a flash of rage glint in his eyes. "What are you doing?" he angrily whispered, "continue shooting!" 

The vibrant anger in his voice and face caught Grantaire off guard. He'd wanted to tell Courfeyrac that it would be a good time to get off the roof and quickly head to the back of la Société Générale. But his mind didn't seem to operate and all his thoughts were crashing together. So he just did as he was told, and shot policeman after policeman trying to get in, but it was a futile effort; several cops were already looking around, and Grantaire could tell that he couldn't shoot and stay out of sight simultaneously for much longer. _I gotta tell him_.

His thoughts were interrupted by loud noises of guns. Coming from the backside of La Société Générale. Confused, Grantaire looked up at Courfeyrac for clarification. And that was the first time Grantaire had ever seen Courfeyrac look so worried; his face was completely blank, with wide eyes. With a jerk, he turned his head to Grantaire. Then, he assessed the policemen breaking down the door of the bank and starting to trickle in. 

"We have to go." 

Grantaire nodded, and already started standing up, but Courfeyrac gestured at him to sit down. "R, I need you to shoot one more time." 

"Why? What's going on, Courf!" Grantaire trying not to yell, but Courfeyrac's stress was seeping into him.

Courfeyrac only shook his head. "Tell you in a minute. Listen, inside the bank is a small white box on the reception desk. I need you to shoot it." 

_What?_

And Grantaire froze up for one moment. The next, he was shaking. His hands spasming and his heart slamming against his chest, his breath hitching in his throat.  

_Not again!_

He gripped his gun tightly, until his knuckles were hurting and had a pale white colour. The pain sharpened him, but didn't ground him. He couldn't think. 

"No." It was the only word he could think of. He felt wild fear overtake him. It was too familiar. He'd been through this already. Not again. "No!" He pushed himself to his feet and started moving, started running. 

Courfeyrac, though, was quicker than him, and he grabbed him by the shoulders and pushed him down. Grantaire yelped when his back hit the rooftop. "And where do you think you're going?" Courfeyrac hissed with a blazing stare in his eyes.   

_He can't know_ , he told himself. _He can't know that I've done this before in Syria. He'll find out about me. I have to calm down_. 

The thoughts were meant to give him a good reason to calm down, but they only fuelled the panic. He dug his fingers into Courfeyrac's arms on his shoulder, desperately to stop his head from buzzing. 

"Grantaire, listen!" Courfeyrac sternly said. He shook Grantaire lightly by the shoulders: "It's not a real bomb. It's a chemical. It'll only knock them out. I won't kill them or hurt them. It's alright." 

It took Grantaire a moment or two to register what was being said to him. When the words finally became clear, somewhere in his mind something was telling him that this was still not okay, but he was too relieved by the news to register it. He slowly relaxed.

"R, come on. We have to go!" Courfeyrac insisted again. "It'll be fine. Just shoot!" 

It was the demanding tone that drove Grantaire over the edge. He quickly aimed his gun and peered into the bank. On the reception desk, he could see a small white package. He took a deep breath, and readied his gun for shooting. 

And he really wanted to shoot. He wanted to get this over with and flee from the roof. But when he placed his finger on the trigger, he noticed how badly his hands were shaking. He pulled the trigger anyways. And he could tell it was off. He missed and muttered a 'fuck' under his breath before aiming again. This time he hit the box, and in an instant Grantaire could see some sort of gas pour from it. He silently watched it spread for a second, and a strange calm overcame him. He quietly took in how the policemen walking in started falling down.

But the moment ended soon. Courfeyrac pulled him into a standing position and grabbed him by the wrist. "We need to leave right now," he said. 

Together they quickly descended the stairs. Grantaire let Courfeyrac guide him down a hole to the sewers. The smell was horrible and Grantaire felt bile rising in his throat. He forced himself to continue, though. 

"Sorry about that from earlier. Are you alright?" Courfeyrac carefully inquired. 

"Do I fucking look alright to you?" Grantaire responded as he tried to keep himself from falling to his knees and vomiting. Courfeyrac seized him by the arm, and looked playfully in his eyes. "Well, you're well enough to be a piece of shit, so I guess you'll be fine. Just say it when it gets overwhelming." 

"Ha ha, very funny." Grantaire dryly laughed a bit as he forced himself to take deep breaths despite the smell. Courfeyrac just grinned at him. And the next moment, they were moving again.

They couldn't have been underground for more than a couple of minutes, but to Grantaire, it felt like hours. When Courfeyrac finally stopped at a ladder leading to a hole, Grantaire couldn't act fast enough. But when he was about to push the lid off the hole and breathe in fresh air to knock out his nausea, Courfeyrac grabbed him by the arm.

"Let me first check if it's clear, 'kay?"

He then fished his walkie-talkie out of his pocket and proceeded to contact Feuilly before Grantaire could answer him. "Feuilly, Bossuet? Grantaire and I 're in the sewers underneath you guys. Can we go up?" Courfeyrac asked. When he didn't get an answer, he repeated his message. Still no answer. 

"Feuilly, Bossuet? Are you there?" Courfeyrac asked. Grantaire could basically see his facial expression distort into confusion, and then concern when there was no answer yet again. 

He jerked his head up at Grantaire: "Check your phone," he commanded. Grantaire dug in his pockets for his phone and fished it out as quickly as he could. Meanwhile, Courfeyrac was still talking through the walkie-talkie. Grantaire unlocked his phone and quickly skimmed through the messages in the group chat. There was nothing from either Feuilly or Bossuet, but there was a text message from Éponine:  _someone found out that the street cameras are hacked. cops on their way._  

He told Courfeyrac about the message, but apart from a curse, Courfeyrac didn't say anything about it and only wanted to know whether Feuilly or Bossuet had said anything. And when Grantaire told him that he hadn't gotten anything from either, Courfeyrac only got more worried.

"Where the fuck are they!" Courfeyrac exclaimed when an attempt to call Feuilly on his phone only gave him voicemail. He looked up at Grantaire, and Grantaire instantly noticed how dilated his pupils were. "They're not answering." 

Grantaire quickly ran a hand through his hair. Though he didn't know the plan, he was fast enough to understand that this was bad and up to him now that Courfeyrac was bordering a stress-breakdown. So he had to think fast and decided it best to just stick with the plan. 

"Let's go up, okay? Maybe they need help," he suggested. And to his relief, Courfeyrac nodded at him and also straightened his shoulders a bit. "Yeah, okay," he said with a shaky exhale of breath.

Grantaire nodded and pushed the lid off of the hole. He quickly peered around: the hole came out in a small alley from where he could see the back entrance of La Société Générale. He looked over his shoulder to make sure it was safe to climb out, and then he quickly scrambled out of the sewers and behind a container to enjoy the fresh air in his lungs. Courfeyrac quickly followed him out. He frantically looked around him, and then at Grantaire: "Where are Feuilly and Bossuet? They were supposed to be here." 

Grantaire almost rolled his eyes; as if he knew. But that would be a dick move when Courfeyrac was genuinely concerned, so instead he whispered: "I don't know." 

Then, he asked, "try calling someone else. Maybe something happened." 

Courfeyrac snapped at him. "You think I didn't do that already!" He was nearly shouting. "What about those gunshots from earlier? Do you think I didn't consider asking someone else what the fuck is going on!"

Grantaire flinched back from the sudden loud tone, as much as he tried to suppress the reflex. 

He almost reached for his boot without thinking, before he snapped out of it and jerked his hand up to his chest. When Courfeyrac saw him shrink back into himself, his expression became puzzled, but also softened a bit. 

"Sorry, that was unnecessary of me." 

"It's alright," Grantaire immediately responded to hide the fact that he was about to pull a knife on Courfeyrac and to not think about the calculating gaze Courfeyrac was throwing at him once again. 

"I'll try Combeferre and Enjolras," Courfeyrac declared, "if no one answers we go look inside?" 

Grantaire desperately wanted to say no, that he absolutely didn't want to enter a building filled to the brim with cops. But he knew it was useless, so he just nodded. Courfeyrac called Combeferre. 

The silence stretched and every second took its toll on Courfeyrac. He was fidgeting and checking whether he was actually dialling every few seconds. It would've been better to call Enjolras or Joly or anyone else rather than Combeferre, Grantaire reflected. Courfeyrac was obviously closest to Combeferre, and if he didn't answer Courfeyrac was likely to panic. He anxiously listened to Courfeyrac's phone going over. 

Then at last, Grantaire heard a soft sound coming from the phone, and Courfeyrac practically flew forward: "Combeferre! Thank God," he said along with a sharp inhale of breath, "where are you? Is everyone alright?" 

Grantaire could hear Combeferre talking quickly and urgently, but he couldn't understand the conversation safe for Courfeyrac saying 'yeah' and 'okay' every now and then. And when Combeferre was done talking, Courfeyrac ended the conversation: "Okay, we'll do it. Just make sure that the cops are following you. Yeah, good luck. Thanks." He hang up and quickly informed Grantaire: "Because the cops arrived so soon, Bossuet couldn't get to Feuilly quick enough. Feuilly couldn't hold them off on is own, so Joly and Enjolras had to help him." 

The stress in Courfeyrac's voice was practically vibrant. "Meanwhile, Combeferre tried to crack the code, but he couldn't pull it off. No time.'' He then had a moment of quiet, and Grantaire felt dread at the situation. He didn't really know what exactly Courfeyrac was saying, but he understood that the time was too limited. "So what does that mean?" 

"The important part," Courfeyrac emphasised, "is that we're in trouble." 

"How so?" Grantaire asked. He didn't like the way this was going. 

Courfeyrac quickly looked over his shoulder, and he then softly whispered: "Marius is gone." 

He sounded as if he didn't even believe it himself, and Grantaire thought that he was joking at first. He let out a laugh and breath in one, unable to understand what exactly he was being told. But then Courfeyrac frowned at him and shook his head in anger: "I'm not fucking joking, Grantaire! Bahorel came to pick up Enjolras, Combeferre and Joly, but since Ferre was still inside, Bahorel was too early." Courfeyrac swallowed once at the mention of Combeferre, and then continued: "So Bahorel only took Joly and Enjolras with him, and left Combeferre behind.Thank God Feuilly and Bossuet could get him outside and managed to escape with Marius, or he would've still been fucking in there!" While he was talking, he started speaking with more anger and louder. He was angry at Bahorel for making the decision, Grantaire could tell. Even though he could understand it, he didn't want Courfeyrac to start shouting with the cops nearby. So, in the spur of the moment, he interrupted Courfeyrac with grabbing him by the shoulder. Courfeyrac had apparently fallen back into his own thoughts, because the sudden touch startled him a lot. 

So, to get his message across, Grantaire shook him slightly: "Courf! Calm down," he whispered. He checked whether Courfeyrac had his attention on Grantaire, and when he saw Courfeyrac was at least trying to keep up, he put a finger to his lips and made a small gesture to the bank with his head. They were only barely hidden from sight, and Courfeyrac was one decibel away from right-out shouting. He really needed to stay quiet. To distract him from his more emotional outburst, he quickly racked his brains for a distraction. It was easy enough: "So what do we do?" 

"Well," Courfeyrac sighed, a lot more quiet now, "the thing is..." he trailed off a bit. And when he didn't finish his statement, Grantaire urged him on a bit: "Yeah, what's the matter?" He was slightly concerned about whatever Courfeyrac was about to propose. "What do we have to do?"

Coufeyrac bit his lip a bit, and he looked pretty guilty. About what, was what Grantaire was curious- and slightly concerned- about. Courfeyrac still hesitated. "Well. The thing is," he started. 

"Yeah?" 

Courfeyrac visibly braced himself. "Jehan says he's able to crack the safe, but someone has to do the handwork." Grantaire could see where this was going. Out of instinct, he looked over his shoulder, ready to run away. There were cops everywhere. He felt his mouth go dry. 

"And how are we gonna get away?" he weakly protested. "It's as you said: the cops are everywhere and our drivers are gone." 

Courfeyrac thought about that for a moment, and then he looked back at Grantaire with an uneasy expression. "Well, that's the thing. I'm thinking we call Cosette, ask her to leave us a car or something." 

_Who is Cosette again?_  Grantaire had heard the name a few times before, but he couldn't imagine a face with it. "I mean," he lightly said, "I don't see a problem with it, if she can help it's all good." 

Courfeyrac's expression was precarious, to say the least. He juggled his phone in his hands. He then explained: "Well, Marius is really, how do I say it, reluctant on involving Cosette in our business." Grantaire scoffed a bit at the serious tone. "She's a big girl, Courf. I think that's up to her to decide. I thought you and your group were all about independence."

But he saw that this wasn't enough for Courfeyrac, and that it probably was more than just Marius' wish. So he added: "I mean, it would already be nice of her to leave a vehicle, right?" 

For a short moment, Courfeyrac was silent, and from the thoughtful gleam in his eyes, Grantaire assumed he was opting it. That in itself was already surprising to Grantaire; if he were in charge, he wouldn't have thought about his decision for a moment. But he wasn't in charge; Courfeyrac would have to choose.

It took Courfeyrac much too long for Grantaire's liking, but in the end Courfeyrac apparently was smart enough to make the right decision. Without as much as a word, he unlocked his phone. Not long after, he opened the keyboard and typed out a number. Then, he started dialling, keeping the phone to his ear. 

_He's keeping this Cosette away from me_. Grantaire noticed; he'd already seen how Cosette was not in the group chat of Les Amis, how she was not in Courfeyrac's contacts. It was obvious that Les Amis de l'ABC wasn't supposed to be linked to Cosette. 

"Cosette," Courfeyrac greeted, "it's me, Courf. I need your help." 

A voice answered, sounding worried. Courfeyrac listened, then answered: "We fucked up. I'm supposed to get the winnings with R- yeah, new guy, tell you all about it later. Anyways, we need a car or something like that. We'll drive ourselves. Just park it somewhere near La Société Générale, please?" He cast a side glance at Grantaire and crossed his fingers. Grantaire nodded at him, too busy with straining to hear the response from the girl on the other side of the line. However, he only heard a soft noise.

"Really?" Courfeyrac breathed out, "Oh my God, I can't thank you enough!" Grantaire released a breath he'd been holding in. Courfeyrac excitedly discussed where she would park the 'vehicle'. 

"-Yeah, got it. Okay." Courfeyrac quickly thanked the girl again and then muttered a quick 'au revoir' before hanging up. He finally looked at Grantaire. 

"Okay, so we have an escape car." 

Grantaire nodded. "That's good. How long will it take her to get here?" 

Courfeyrac frowned: "She'll be gone by the time we're done," he guessed. And with that, he quickly gazed over their cover to the back door of the bank.

"Are there many cops?" Grantaire asked. Courfeyrac took the time to look around carefully, and then he shook his head slowly. "No, not at all. In fact, I can't see anything." I wouldn't be sure." He pointed to something. Grantaire stretched his neck to see what it was. It was simply the bank for as far as he could see. He questioningly looked at Courfeyrac. 

"That," Courfeyrac gestured, "is a very empty crime scene." Now Grantaire paid attention to it, he indeed noticed that there were only a few cops and two police cars. Far too empty. He immediately set up what scenarios could come from this. It had to be a trap, for sure. They would either arrest them, or there would be cops inside the building, or they already knew where he and Courfeyrac were and they would be behind him when he chanced a look over the shoulder. And he told Courfeyrac as much: "I think it's a bit suspicious. Usually the police are better at their job, I'd say."

Courfeyrac shook his head in dismissal. "Oh, R, ye of little faith. Not every luck is a secret trap." Again he flashed Grantaire one of his wicked grins. "You see, the cops are chasing two cars, since those two cars picked up a bunch of people hanging out near the bank." It only then occurred to Grantaire that Courfeyrac, now that the others were relatively safe, was already ten times as relaxed as he was. 

We can do this, Grantaire realised. Courfeyrac also gleamed, and he nudged Grantaire in the side. " But there's probably some still around, so we need to very carefully go in, just in case." 

"Do you know where the safe is?" 

Courfeyrac tapped on the phone in his pocket: "Jehan will help us with that. And cracking the safe. When we open it, we just grab what we can take - Combeferre left a bag near the safe, or so he says- and get out again. We take Cosette's car, drive to the meeting point and 's all done." 

Grantaire nodded, and Courfeyrac lightly pushed him, urging him to stand up. "You go first." 

Grantaire didn't like being the one up front, but he figured he had no choice. He stood up and moved away from the container and in the direction of the bank. He looked over his shoulder, and Courfeyrac shot him a lazy thumbs up. 

Next, he took to a slower pace, scuffling alongside the wall of the building next to him. He was only a few feet away, and he scuffled closer, scared to hell to make a sound. When he neared the corner, he carefully peaked around it, but he still saw nothing. Most cops were probably in the front, looking for the mysterious sniper. The ones that had stayed behind were chasing the others of Les Amis.

Now, he very carefully walked over to the bank. He was only a few feet away, scared to hell to make a sound. When he finally arrived. He raised his gun and stepped into the entrance. He quickly looked around, still standing at the entrance. But there was absolutely no one. 

He silently grinned in triumph, and turned around to Courfeyrac, gesturing him to come. Courfeyrac did so, and within a minute he was standing next to Grantaire. Grantaire bowed for him. "After you." 

To his surprise, Courfeyrac chuckled and took the chance to walk past Grantaire. "As you wish." 

Grantaire followed him, and that was how he and Courfeyrac entered La Société Générale. 

Courfeyrac stepped a sort of room, the first one they encountered after a short corridor, but before Grantaire could follow him he swayed and started falling back. Grantaire let out a startled cry and barely caught Courfeyrac by the shoulders. "Hey, Courf!" he alarmedly said, "Courf, what's wrong?"

Courf grunted and massaged his temples, eyes tight shut. "I'm fine," he managed to say, though a bit slurry. "Forgot about that gas we released," he explained. "Stings like a bitch." 

Oh yeah, Grantaire remembered the gas now. "So what do we do?" he questioned, "just run through it and hold our breath?" They hadn't thought this out. 

"We just need to get upstairs as quick as possible," Courfeyrac answered. "The gas is pretty dense, so it should be settled. It won't go upstairs, I think." He carefully pushed himself straight-up and Grantaire let go of him. When he was sure Courfeyrac would be alright, he quickly walked past him. "I'll go first," he offered. Courfeyrac nodded. Grantaire took a deep breath and entered the room. He looked around for stairs. Eventually he found one, and went up them as quickly as possible. By the time he was high enough that he could see the gas settled on the floor, he opened his mouth and took a deep breath. Courfeyrac, who had followed him up the stairs, did the same. Then, he tapped Grantaire on the shoulder. Grantaire knew what he was trying to say. Together they walked through the corridor. Courfeyrac grabbed his walkie-talkie and pressed the recording button: "Jehan, you there?"

After a second of static, Grantaire could hear a voice answer: "Yeah, are you and R inside?" 

Courfeyrac affirmed, and Jehan gave them a few instructions to get to the vault. Courfeyrac went up front, and Grantaire followed him. Soon, they reached a giant vault. Even though Grantaire had known to expect a something as big as this, he still couldn't help but just take a moment to appreciate it in awe of the thought that things like these existed. The gigantic door was locked by a numberlock as well as a card slide. Grantaire also saw a card lying on the floor under the slide. He picked it up and examined it before handing it to Courfeyrac. "Guess this is necessary." 

Courfeyrac took it and held it up against the light. "I guess," he mumbled. "A vault this big would probably be better off with an extra key." 

"Yeah, probably. Holy shit," Grantaire slowly muttered. "To think I'd ever see such a thing in my life. Albeit under different circumstances than normal." Courfeyrac made a noise of agreement at that statement. "Damn right, I never thought I'd make it farther than robbing a gas station." 

"Really? I thought you guys only rob the big boys. The kind who wouldn't miss a few dollars." 

Courfeyrac shrugged. "Everyone starts small." 

"Guys, are you there?" Jehan's broke up their small banter. "You two should hurry." 

"Courfeyrac, can you open the safe with Jehan's help?" Grantaire asked. "I don't know how long we have until the gas stops working." 

Courfeyrac rolled his eyes: "That'll be fine, Combeferre and Enjolras installed a go-pro. Jehan can monitor it all for us." 

"Okay," Grantaire answered. He moved away from the door to give Courfeyrac some space. Courfeyrac took a look at the elaborate lock. Then, out of nowhere, Courfeyrac untied one of his shoelaces and pulled it out of the shoe. Grantaire confusedly watched Courfeyrac, not sure what he was doing. At first, he wanted to ask Courfeyrac just what he was doing, but he decided against it, expecting to find it out sooner or later. In the meantime, he put the safety off his own gun- he'd put it on as soon as they started running to avoid accidentally shooting Courfeyrac- and carefully checked the corridor for any sign of movement. He figured Courfeyrac wouldn't need his help with unlocking the door, so he resigned to security. Courfeyrac pushed the recording button and told Jehan "we're ready." 

Jehan responded calmly. "Okay, here's what you need to do. You see the number board? Push the 8." 

It was at that moment that Grantaire realised what Courfeyrac had been planning with his shoelace; he used the plastic point to push the buttons, effectively avoiding touching the safe with his fingers. For a moment, Grantaire was baffled at the thought of Courfeyrac taking such a simple thing into consideration, and how stupid he was to not have thought about that. But then he reminded himself that he'd never actually been the one to take the gain during heists; even during this one, his job was only to clear the way for the others. How could he know what to do? 

Courfeyrac quickly and neatly followed Jehan's instructions.Grantaire's tired eyes and ears couldn't connect the stray words he picked up from Jehan's rant to the things he saw flashing by on the lock screen. He had no idea how Courfeyrac still followed, but he deserved more than praise for it. Grantaire figured that Courfeyrac's adrenaline was reaching its optimum from the thrill of breaking into a bank, whilst his own was wearing off. After all, Courfeyrac had only killed one person, and though it was still a person, it wasn't like Grantaire. Grantaire had killed several policemen and shot a gas bomb, and now he was exhausted. He'd done his job. Courfeyrac was still working.

"Okay, now just slide the card through the slot," Grantaire heard Jehan instruct. Courfeyrac did as he was told, and Grantaire saw the red light turn green. He heard a small beep as the safe door smoothly opened. Courfeyrac beamed at him, with an obviously proud demeanour. Grantaire clapped him on the shoulder, but Courfeyrac took the opportunity to pull him into a quick but strong hug. 

Taken by surprise, Grantaire was already pulling away before he knew what was happening. But he pushed his instincts down and returned the hug briefly. 

"We did it!" Courfeyrac semi-yelled. He released Grantaire and quickly pushed the door farther open. "Now let's get what we can take along." 

With a grin, Grantaire reached into the vault and snatched a handful of the bills that were neatly piled on a big table in the middle of the safe. If he was going to rob a bank anyway, he might as well get some of his take already. Courfeyrac grinned away at that and grabbed the bag. As he started filling the bag, Grantaire took the opportunity to pick up the walkie-talkie. He pressed the recording button and cheerfully informed Jehan. "Courf and I are in. We're grabbing and bagging it. Is everything still clear?" 

He could hear Jehan smile through the walkie-talkie. "Great work, Grantaire and Courfeyrac. Reception's clear." 

Grantaire couldn't keep himself from smiling. It was all going well. After a small inconvenience, they were back on track. 

_Tap_

_What was that?_

__

He pricked his ears and tried to omit the noises of Courfeyrac shuffling bills. At first, he didn't hear anything. But then, when he listened really carefully, he could hear it again. 

_Tap_

He froze up. Something inside him exploded and expanded. It might just be background noise, he told himself, but his instincts didn't let him believe that. 

But Jehan had said that the reception was clear. And there were no cops near the back door. So how could there be someone around? 

All his doubts vanished when he suddenly heard the sounds again, and they were much closer. In an instant, he realised what they were.

_Tap tap tap_

Footsteps! They were footsteps, rounding the corner! The freeze that had taken him up finally lost its control, and Grantaire frantically spun around as fast as he could. Something was wrong. Courfeyrac wasn't paying attention to him, only focused on the money. But Grantaire could hear the noise and could feel that something was wrong. And when he was turned around he was met with a terrifying sight:

There was a man at the end of the corridor. Holding a gun and pointing it at him. And as Grantaire tried to grab his own, he watched in horror as the man pulled the trigger.


	8. Ain't no rest for the wicked

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we were so stuck on a few sentences this chapter. It frustrated us to hell and back so please be gentle okay thanks. now after leaving you guys hanging for two whole weeks i hope you'll enjoy

"Look out!" Grantaire screamed. There was a gun aimed at him; his reflexes jumped into motion and his body reacted instantly. As he jerked to the right in an attempt to dodge, something soared right past him, so close he could feel it grazing the hairs on his arm.

Somewhere amidst the chaos his mind was dealing with the fact that he almost died then and there, but that thought was forgotten within seconds. A pounding in his head took over, blocking all thoughts. He had to react, and fast. He shifted his footing so that he was balancing on his toes for a bit of extra agility and still desperately fumbled for his own gun. A part of him wanted to turn his eyes to the gun so that he could see what he was doing, but he didn't dare. It was drilled into him to never look away. Ever.

That decision was one he cherished with his life, because when his fingers finally managed to pull the gun from his belt, he saw the barrel aimed at his heart, and a finger starting to tighten around the trigger. 

Time seemed to come to a halt; The only thing on Grantaire's mind was survival.  _There's a goddamn gun aimed at you!_ He jerked aside again. Something flew past his arm and tore the flesh. The sudden force took his breath for a moment, and he stumbled. However, the frenzy inside him prevented him from falling. He readied himself to shoot back.

Suddenly, a loud gasp pulled him out of his haze. 

His momentum was instantly lost, and he felt fear take hold of him. He'd completely forgotten about Courfeyrac. Against all his instincts, he turned his head to check, and all that went through his mind was  _Oh God please don't be shot!_

There was no blood, no wound. Grantaire, though only for one moment, felt relief. But then his attention was drawn to the walkie-talkie clenched in Courfeyrac's hand, and Jehan's voice coming from it: "What was that? Courfeyrac! Is everything-"

That was all he heard before he picked up a sound from behind him. He saw pure terror appear in Courfeyrac's eyes, and he frantically turned around; when he did, he wasn't met with the barrel of a gun. Or at least it wasn't aimed at him: The target had shifted to Courfeyrac. 

_He's going to shoot him!_ Grantaire realised. _He's going to make sure he can't warn Jehan._

Fire flared up inside him again. Courfeyrac had no time to get his gun, nowhere to hide. If this man shot, Courfeyrac would die. Grantaire sure as hell wasn't going to let that happen. 

"Duck!" he yelled. He gripped his gun tightly and raised it with speed unlike any he knew. His reflexes were taking over, choosing fight over flight. And Grantaire's reflexes, no matter what state he was in, never failed him.

The click of the trigger being pulled was loud like an explosion.

_NO!_

Seeing no other options, Grantaire violently swung his own body to the left, protecting Courfeyrac with the only shield he could offer. And that was when he took a quick aim at the man's head and shot.

The corridor was wild with sound, and he felt something forcefully push into his left shoulder. It took all his breath, and his knees buckled before he harshly collided with the floor. He looked up just in time to see his own bullet between the man's eyes. The body fell back form the force and landed on the floor with a loud thud. He tried to chuckle in his triumph, but it only came out as a groan. And when he tried to stand up, he found he couldn't. _Oh shit_

"R!" Courfeyrac exclaimed from behind him. Grantaire tried to say something back, but he couldn't get any air in his lungs. He gasped for air, tried to scramble to his feet, but his muscles didn't comply. He couldn't move. 

_How bad is it?_ He didn't feel any pain, but he wasn't stupid enough to assume that meant he was fine. He carefully lifted his right hand, which was shaking (another clue that something wasn't going well), and snuck it under his hoodie to carefully touch his shoulder. All he felt was a light pressure and a bit of a sting. But then he withdrew his hand; his fingers were stained with a deep red. 

_That's bad_ , he decided. By then, he felt something shift next to him. He turned his head to see Courfeyrac. His breath was hitching when he carefully slid his arms around Grantaire's waist and, albeit a bit clumsy, dragged Grantaire against the wall. "Keep sitting, shoulder above the heart." 

Courfeyrac tugged lightly at his hoodie. "Dont worry, R," he assured in an extremely stressed voice, "You'll be fine. Joly can take care of it." Grantaire slapped Courfeyrac's hand away when he tried to shove his jumper off his shoulder. "Which is," he panted, "why I think we had better get to Joly quickly. I can still walk now, better to get out of here." And to show Courfeyrac that he was fine, he tried to scramble to his feet again. 

Before he could get up, Courfeyrac pushed him down by his uninjured shoulder. "Grantaire," he sincerely said, "I need to look at it." He tried to shove Grantaire's jumper down his shoulder again. Grantaire once again waved him away.

"Courf," he urged, "we have to go." Courfeyrac had been quite unbearable throughout the entire heist, but now that there was a bullet in his body it was becoming dangerous.  _Courfeyrac_ was too stressed to do anything,  _he_ still couldn't move his body, and there was somehow someone here. He stared at the body and recognised the neat suit; the staff of la Société Générale. To his horror, he realised that this man was the night porter. And it dawned on him there were even bigger problems coming their way.

"How is he here, Courfeyrac? Wasn't he tranquillised and gassed?" he questioned. Courfeyrac's face turned white. Grantaire finally managed to move his right hand, and he grabbed Courf's arm. "Don't you get it? If he's up, there could be cops here any minute now! We need to go!" He gestured to the body, but from the look on Courfeyrac's face he assumed that his point had got across. With an unhappy face, Courfeyrac released himself from Grantaire's grip. He took his own gun out of its case. 

"Goddamnit," he said, and he looked down at Grantaire. "We do have to leave," he admitted, then a stubborn look returned to his face. "But you need help." 

He crouched in front of Grantaire and looped his arm around him to haul him to his feet. Grantaire saw stars, and he almost collapsed again, but Courfeyrac held him firmly, waiting for the dizziness to wear off. 

Eventually it did, and Grantaire felt a little bit of his strength return in his legs. Carefully, he put it to the test and took a step. When he didn't fall, he took another one. Apart from his legs burning, he didn't feel all that much. "Looks fine to me," he commented.

"Considering the circumstances," Courfeyrac answered. Grantaire chuckled at that, and was happy to see Courfeyrac smile too. "By the way, you're only okay because your body is overdosing you with adrenaline at the moment." He shrugged off his jacket, and removed his arm from Grantaire's waist. "Stand still," he commanded. Grantaire watched him as he circled around Grantaire, stopping when he arrived at Grantaire's injured shoulder. 

"What are you doing?" Grantaire asked, uncertain. Courfeyrac lifted Grantaire's arm and stuck it in one of the sleeves of his jacket. When he was done with that, he walked around Grantaire and repeated the process with the other arm. Grantaire wanted to shrug it off, but he couldn't muster up the strength. He was barely standing on his legs.

"I'm trying to prevent you from going into shock," Courfeyrac answered. It was supposed to sound calm, but Courfeyrac's voice and hands were shaking. "I don't know how much blood a person can loose, but it's probably less than I think." He quickly walked in front of Grantaire and pulled up the zipper, and then moved himself back to Grantaire's side. "We need to keep you warm and get you in the car." 

"Okay. Well, where is it?" Grantaire asked, ignoring the implication of what could happen if they didn't get away soon enough. Courfeyrac muttered something under his breath, something Grantaire couldn't understand. Then, he tightened his grip on Grantaire. "I'm going to walk now," he announced. "Tell me if you start getting dizzy or something." 

Grantaire nodded, but he secretly asked:  _and what then?_  What was Courfeyrac going to do if Grantaire collapsed, wasn't able to move, went into a shock as he feared? They had no choice but to carry on. So Grantaire told himself that he had to get through this, no matter what. And just as he promised himself that, Courfeyrac started walking. 

Courfeyrac was trying to go easy, but every meter was exhausting for Grantaire. He still tried to keep putting one feet in front of the other as best as he could. And for a few meters, everything went well. But then Grantaire saw the body of the man lying a bit further down the corridor. He tried to walk quickly despite the trembles running all over his body, but he still looked. He still saw the blood running down the face, glassy eyes staring through him into nothing.

He had to stop. The dead eyes cut through him like a blade. He couldn't walk away from them. He'd killed this man. A man who'd done nothing wrong. Who was just doing his job. The only thing he did wrong was when he tried to kill Courfeyrac, but that wasn't his fault. He was an innocent man who was met with terrible circumstances. And that had cost him his life.

"R?" Courfeyrac's voice pierced through the silence, "everything okay?"

Grantaire forced himself to shake it off and say something back. "How did he get here?" He spoke the words carefully to hide the tremble in his voice.

"I don't know. The gas should still work." Courfeyrac for once didn't sense his distress and tightened his grip on Grantaire. "Come on." 

And Grantaire allowed Courfeyrac to drag him on. He did try to walk as hard as he could, but it was an effort like no other. The most excruciating part was walking down the stairs. He had to grip the railing and lean on Courfeyrac like a cane, and even then he only made it halfway down before his knees gave out again. Courfeyrac let out a startled cry and quickly grabbed him under the armpit to stop him from falling down the stairs. And in doing so, he touched Grantaire's shoulder. And that made him gasp sharply.

Though Grantaire knew that he was in trouble, it still didn't feel all too painful. It felt more like a punch to the shoulder, which was slightly painful, but nothing serious. But it wasn't that simple, and Grantaire knew that. He gathered the courage to look at Courfeyrac. Just what had he seen or felt that was so shocking?

Courfeyrac had removed his hand from Grantaire's shoulder, and he looked at it with a bewildered gaze. His hand was bright red. 

Grantaire saw it, and it was at that moment that he finally noticed that the beating in his head didn't stop, but got louder. And that his pulse was quickening. This discovery made fear settle in his stomach. He hadn't really been aware that he was in an awful shape, but now he saw how much blood he was actually losing. 

"Oh God," Courfeyrac whispered, "you're bleeding a lot." He ran a hand through his hair, pulling at the strands, and shot Grantaire a look. And Grantaire saw an emotion he had not prepared for at all: fear.

_He's afraid for my life_ , Grantaire realised. Courfeyrac was completely shaken, and he was looking at Grantaire with sheer horror. But why? Why was he so scared? Surely they'd make it. Even if Grantaire didn't, Courfeyrac would still manage. 

"Okay, no need to panic." Courfeyrac 'assured' him. Grantaire scoffed at him with a laugh. 

"I don't think you need to tell me-" 

"Yes I do," Courfeyrac interrupted him. His voice was trembling. "Please, don't just shrug it off." When he talked, he had to pause between words to catch his breath. It occurred to Grantaire that having to carry someone while being in the state Courfeyrac was in- tired, still shaken from almost dying, and scared- was probably a terrible effort. 

He swallowed the words about not having to worry, and replaced them with a nod. He couldn't think of anything else; his entire brain felt slow. Luckily, the gesture earned him an 'okay' from Courfeyrac, and he hauled Grantaire to his feet again. When Grantaire was more or less standing, they looked down at the corridor. Even though the gas had thinned out a bit, Grantaire was pretty sure that it still would be effective. That meant that they had to get moving fast once they were down. Courfeyrac didn't take his eyes off the corridor downstairs, but he instructed Grantaire nevertheless: "Okay, you don't do anything. I'm serious, if you trip and fall down-" he didn't finish his sentence and instead took a deep breath. "Just hold your breath, I'll carry you through."

With that, he carefully clenched Grantaire's good arm with his hand. He lifted Grantaire from the ground, looking him in the eye. "Hold your breath." 

Grantaire nodded at him, and took a breath as deep as he could manage. And a moment later, Courfeyrac stormed down the stairs. How Courfeyrac was able to get through the entire room without breathing was something Grantaire could probably never grasp. He was already on the verge of panting, let alone Courfeyrac, who was also using his strength to carry another person. But however he did it, he eventually dragged himself and Grantaire into the corridor leading to the exit. There, he let Grantaire go for a moment and took in a deep breath, hands on his hips. Grantaire did the same, and put his right hand on his left shoulder. This caused him much more pain than earlier, but he forced himself to start putting pressure on the wound. He knew that he could do that much. 

Courfeyrac, meanwhile, caught his breath and walked over to Grantaire. When he saw that Grantaire was applying pressure, he broke into a faintly relieved smile. "Good, keep doing that. How's it feeling?"

Grantaire thought about lying to Courfeyrac if only to prevent him from stressing more, but he was really getting scared now and he could tell that it wasn't going too well. "It's starting to hurt."

Courfeyrac took the news surprisingly calm: he only nodded and grabbed him again. "I'll get us out. Just keep doing that," he gestured to his shoulder. 

And that was how they reached the back door of la Société Générale. It was here that Courfeyrac really took to holding his gun ready to shoot. He briefly looked around for cops, and then he turned back to Grantaire with a relieved face: "Nothing. I think it's safe to run to the car." 

Grantaire nodded, and was already trying to push himself to his feet before Courfeyrac gently put a hand on his good shoulder, shaking his head. "No, not letting that happen. You're staying here and I drive the car this way, then you get in and we go." 

Grantaire eyed him and then shook his head with a raise of his eyebrows. "No offense, Courfeyrac, but do you seriously think I'm gonna wait here with a building full of cops right behind me?"

"Goddamnit, R," Courfeyrac cursed, "you're shot! And even if your body seems to have too much to do right now to care, I'm not gonna let you run. You're already losing a lot of blood, running will only make it worse." At that, he looked over Grantaire's shoulder for a brief moment (because he was scared of police suddenly waking up despite denying it) and gave Grantaire a new command: "Just stay here and put pressure on the wound, stop the bleeding as best as you can." 

Grantaire did as he was told, but still argued. "I'll run straight towards the car. After that, I'll keep still. I promise. Please, what if everyone wakes up?" 

His pleas were genuine; now that his shoulder was getting more painful with every passing second, he was truly afraid. He could shoot with his right hand, sure, but he wasn't nearly as fast or accurate as with his left. 

Courfeyrac eyed him for a much longer time than before, but in the end he gave him a look so apologetic that it almost seemed af if Courfeyrac was leaving him to die: "I'm really sorry, but I can't let you." Now Courfeyrac was the one shooting a pleading look at Grantaire: "I'm so sorry about all of this. It's all my fault, but I really don't know what to do with wounds like these and I don't know just how much you can take. So don't risk it. Just stay here. I'll be back in five minutes." 

Maybe it was the face that drove Grantaire over the edge, maybe the complete helplessness in his voice, or maybe just the fatigue already overpowering everything, but he lost his vigour, and he couldn't bring himself to argue anymore. He meekly nodded at Courfeyrac and slid himself down the wall, and there he continued to put pressure on his shoulder. "Okay, but be quick. I'm basically helpless right now."

Courfeyrac gave him a nod and a soft touch on his good shoulder. "I swear, I'll be back before you notice I'm gone." And that was the last Grantaire saw of him before he ran outside and disappeared into one of the alleys. Now he couldn't do anything but wait. 

He took to massaging his shoulder fervently, pushing harder and harder, even though it hurt more every time. He continued up to the point where his hand was flinching away on its own, and then he let go and checked whether it had stopped bleeding; it hadn't, but the flow had slowed down. That was good enough for him. 

He tried to remember where Cosette's car was parked and how long it would take Courfeyrac to come back, but his head was working really slowly and everything was a blur. That was also a scary thing; his senses weren't sharp anymore, and everything happening around him seemed to be in slow motion. 

Perhaps that was why he was still sitting slumped against the wall when the light of a car shone right in his face. He hadn't heard it coming, and his face contorted into a frown against the light. Soon enough, a window rolled down, and Grantaire stared into Courfeyrac's concerned eyes. "Get in." 

Grantaire nodded, and pushed himself to his feet, only barely remaining standing at this point. He started walking over to the back of the car to move around to the passenger seat. 

Then, a voice burst through the silence: "Courfeyrac! Grantaire! Watch out there's cops coming from the right-" 

That was all he picked up. The next moment, Courfeyrac screamed: "Get down!" 

Grantaire obeyed as quick as he could and fell to the ground. Just an inch above him, a bullet flew over and smashed a window further down the street. Tires screeched and there were more shots. Grantaire still lay down, unable to react to this anymore. He lifted his head to watch from which direction the shots had come.

Jehan. That voice had been Jehan, warning them for cops he noticed on the cameras. Grantaire felt a tinge of fear because of how long it took him to draw this conclusion. And then it escalated because that meant he somehow had to survive this!

In the corner of his eye, he could see the car coming towards him, and he vaguely prepared himself for impact. This was it. Courfeyrac was just going to kill him so that he couldn't spoil anything to the police and then run off. He braced himself for the terrible pain about to come.  _It's fine, you've had a shit life. Why add more years to it?_ The thought, supposed to be soothing, only made him more afraid. He didn't want to die like this. Not after all the fighting. 

He closed his eyes, ignoring everything as best as he could. The pain in his shoulder was the only thing he couldn't shut out. It was screaming for his attention. Grantaire felt blood pumping out of it. His adrenaline had shot up again in a desperate attempt to keep him alive, only to bleed him out. Oh the irony. 

"Get up!"

The voice pierced through the thick haze of his mind. Grantaire opened his eyes in curiosity, wondering why he wasn't yet on the bumper of the car. And then he saw that the car was standing in front of him, between him and the police. Forming a shield. The door to the passenger's seat was opened. 

"Get up!" Courfeyrac yelled again. Grantaire could see him shooting a bit at the police. And finally his mind fit the pieces together. He wasn't going to die. At least, not if he was getting up.  _Okay_ , he said to himself, putting his hands on the ground.  _You can do this, you can do this_. 

He grit his teeth into his lower lip, and with tremendous effort, he pushed himself up from the ground. 

The pain in his shoulder made him see white spots, and he couldn't stop himself from screaming. Yet, with shaking arms, he shoved his knees underneath himself. From this position, he carefully gripped the car and hauled himself up. And with the absolute last bit of strength in his body, he dashed into the car and shut the door. Courfeyrac didn't hesitate a second and pushed the gas pedal down to the floor. The engine roared and Grantaire was pushed into the seat. Courfeyrac made a sharp turn and left the police standing. In the mirror, Grantaire could see them hurrying to their own cars, but they were too slow. Courfeyrac turned into a corner, and then another one. His face was set in a straight line, and his knuckles were white from his grip on the steering wheel. Grantaire saw how his face became more worried after a few peripheral glances at him. Still, he didn't say anything except: "put pressure on the wound." 

Grantaire at least understood, and put his hand to his shoulder again. But it just hurt so much and even Courfeyrac's jacket was soaking. His hand fell into his lap and he rested his head against the leaning; by now, a headache unlike any he'd ever had before was taunting him. Before he knew it, the flashing world was becoming too much and he shut his eyes against it. 

"Hey," Courfeyrac yelled at him, "don't fall asleep." He let go of the steering weel and nudged Grantaire in the arm. Grantaire groaned, but forced himself to open his eyes and look at Courfeyrac. 

"That's it, keep your eyes open!" Courfeyrac smiled weakly at him. "You're doing great. Keep doing this. We're almost there. " 

"Almost where?" Grantaire managed to ask. He had no idea where they were. Courfeyrac looked at him and Grantaire could see him biting his lip. "At Musaine." 

Grantaire didn't know Musaine. He wondered if he'd just forgotten it at this point. But that didn't matter; they'd escaped. 

Courfeyrac had put one hand off the steering weel and had picked up the walkie-talkie. He pushed it into Grantaire's hands. "Here. Can you still press the recording button for me?" 

Grantaire nodded, he could still do that. With his right hand, at least. He pushed the button and held the walkie-talkie as close to Courfeyrac as he could with his right arm. Courfeyrac immediately started talking. 

"Jehan, you there?"

"Courf! Are you and Grantaire okay? I'm so sorry I saw the cops too late but someone was trying to throw me off!"

"It's alright," Courfeyrac answered, "listen: we got away, but we can't get to the meeting point. I'm driving right now, so I need you to call Combeferre, no wait, call Enjolras or Joly. Just make sure Joly gets to Musaine as quickly as possible. Okay?"

"Joly?" Jehan sounded worried at that, Grantaire heard. "Courf, what happened? I heard gunshots-"

And that was all, because Grantaire's body decided to go limp. His head spun and suddenly all control was gone. The walkie-talkie slid out of his hand and he slumped back to the seat. Courfeyrac yelped at the sudden black-out and shook Grantaire by the shoulders. "Grantaire! R!" 

A deep sting shot up and he couldn't even bring up a scream anymore, only a whimper. He could hear Jehan's from the walkie-talkie lying at his feet, panicked voice asking what was going on. He was about to pick it up, but Courfeyrac stopped him. "Don't move. We're almost there. It's not worth it."

Too tired to object, Grantaire listened to Courfeyrac and sat back. He placed his hand on his shoulder again, but didn't push, only rested it there. Courfeyrac was now looking at him every few seconds, but it didn't last long before he drove the car into the parking lot Grantaire still remembered from about a week before, when he had just met Courfeyrac and Bahorel. Jehan's stressed voice had stilled by now. 

Courfeyrac carefully drove the car through the dimly lit garage, clearly not as familiar with the place as Bahorel, who basically navigated through it without even looking. As delicately as possible, Courfeyrac stopped the car. Grantaire watched him open the door and tried to open his own, but he could only push it a bit, not far enough, up to the point where Courfeyrac had to help him with it. After that, he slid his arm around Grantaire's waist again and gently pulled him out. Despite being very gentle, it was too much for Grantaire. He was reaching the end of his power, and his legs went out underneath him again. Only this time he couldn't stand up. 

_No! I have to move!_ He told himself, and he tried standing up. But he was panting within five seconds. Courfeyrac looked worried, but also determined. He crouched down in front of Grantaire and hauled him to his feet once again. Grantaire almost fell again, but Courfeyrac kept a strong grip on him. 

"Okay, let's take one step at a time." 

Grantaire nodded.

"Okay, now take one step."

And so they went on. One step each time, with rest in between. It was only when they arrived at the stairs that Courfeyrac lifted him from the ground again, as he had done earlier that evening, when Grantaire still had the energy to walk on his own. God he was so weak now. He couldn't remember what it felt like to be strong. 

"I'm sorry, " Courfeyrac softly said, "I would carry you, but I can't. It's only one staircase, remember? It's not that long."

What are you apologising for? It's not your fault," Grantaire assured him. He couldn't care at all at that point, and Courfeyrac was sincere, which was nice, but he only really wanted to sit down. 

Courfeyrac nodded at him, even though his face as well as his trembling arms didn't show him to be agreeing. Grantaire figured they'd talk about that later. For now, their focus was getting upstairs, and that alone looked like hell itself. Courfeyrac got them up a couple of steps. Grantaire just tried to keep his feet moving. Then, Courfeyrac suddenly stopped walking. Grantaire wondered why, and then he heard a voice: "I'll take his legs." 

The voice sounded vaguely familiar, and Grantaire could feel two arms lifting his feet from the ground. He looked up, and found a face in front of him: it took him a moment to recognise her as the girl he'd met the first night, the one who'd served the drinks at the bar. Chetta, or at least that's what he remembered. When she and Grantaire made eye contact, she smiled a reassuring smile at him. "Just getting you upstairs a bit faster." 

With that, she and Courfeyrac carried him upstairs, noticeably quicker than earlier. From behind his head, Grantaire could hear Courfeyrac ask: "Why are you here?"

"I got a call from Jehan. Said you and Grantaire were heading here and something was wrong." She carefully glanced at Grantaire. "What happened?" 

"He was shot," Courfeyrac answered, and Grantaire swore he could hear him swallow. "I got him here as quick as I could, but he's bleeding a lot. I don't know what to do!"

Grantaire saw that they'd reached the end of the stairs and Courf opened the door with his back. They walked into the café and Grantaire felt himself being laid down on a table. When he was lying on his back, Chetta pushed the hair out of his face; he could feel that he was drenched in sweat. 

"Calm down, Courf! Don't do anything. Joly and Combeferre are on their way," and she went away. Grantaire watched her disappear from his field of view, and then another face leaned over him: Courfeyrac. He was staring right into his eyes, and Grantaire couldn't think of anyone ever looking at him with the same despair. Courfeyrac didn't even send him a reassuring smile; it seemed too late for those. Instead, he put his hands on the wound and pushed into it. Grantaire, both startled and hurt from the touch, couldn't keep down a yelp, which resulted in a string of apologies from Courfeyrac, who kept applying pressure with a feverish rhythm. Grantaire eventually got used to the motion, and for a while they just stayed like that in silence. The only thing that still kept him awake was the steady pressure on his shoulder, he was sure of it. He felt more tired than he had in years, and he could only barely keep his eyes open. Every now and then they slipped close, but then Courfeyrac would nudge him and tell him to stay awake. Grantaire was trying his best. In the background, the girl was scuffling around. 

"Eyes open, R!" Courfeyrac reminded him again, and Grantaire was pulled out of his near sleep once again. He opened his eyes again and stared at Courfeyrac. He wanted to ask him just how much longer he would have to stay awake, but before he could there was a sound coming from the staircase. Courfeyrac's hands stopped pushing, and he looked up. Grantaire, as tired as he was, couldn't let himself lie down and only listen. He propped himself up on his elbows and shifted into a sitting position. He saw Courfeyrac's lips curl in, but he didn't say anything, so Grantaire assumed it was fine for now. Together they waited and listened to footsteps running up the stairs. Courfeyrac held one hand on his gun and moved himself in front of Grantaire. Grantaire tried to watch the door past him.

The door opened with a lot of force, slamming into the wall next to it. Courfeyrac raised his gun in an instant, but immediately lowered it. He let out a sigh and a sudden gasp when Combeferre practically ran into him and pulled him in a strong embrace. 

"Thank God," he exclaimed, "Joly got a call from Jehan saying that you were asking for him before he lost you. What the hell happened?"

Courfeyrac dropped his gun to the ground and returned the hug. "I'm okay, Ferre. But R's not. Where's Joly?"

Just as he said it, the next person came running up the stairs. Grantaire turned his head away from the two to look at the door. He could hear Combeferre asking: "You're shaking all over. What happened? And what do you mean you're not okay?" R assumed the last question was for him, but he was too distracted to answer it: the door swung open again, revealing none other than Apollo standing in the doorway. His eyes flickered to Grantaire for a moment, examining him briefly, but then his focus shifted to Courfeyrac and Combeferre. "What happened?" 

Courfeyrac let go of Combeferre and carefully set himself against the table. "The night porter woke up while we were breaking in. I have no idea how, but he did. I was collecting the money and R was standing right next to me and suddenly he was there and-"

He talked faster and faster, and had to interrupt himself to take a deep breath. At this rate, he was close to hyperventilating. Combeferre seemed to notice this too, because he urged him to sit on the table: "Take it easy, Courf." 

Courf took another deep breath, but he still looked shaken by retelling what happened. Enjolras, despite his awkward handling of people, didn't wait for him to get back to the tale and instead turned to Grantaire. He gazed over Grantaire, but didn't say anything. _I suppose that means I look better than I feel_ , Grantaire amusedly thought. He lifted his tired eyes to meet Enjolras'. 

"We only barely got away," he told him. He had thought about telling him that he was shot, but for some reason it had completely slipped from him within seconds. His brain, his eyes, his thoughts; nothing seemed to work. He saw Enjolras nod, his brow furrowed again.

"And the money?"

The way Courfeyrac jerked his head around at the mention of the word 'money' was almost comical. He stared at Enjolras, then at Grantaire. And Grantaire's own mind was saying nothing but  _oh fuck_.

_Oh fuck!_

"Ehm, well..." he began, "about that..." He let out a chuckle, but on the inside his chest was curling in on itself from fear. How could he have forgotten about the money, the only important thing? His heart began beating faster again. This was bad. He'd fucked up again. Which meant that punishment would follow. 

_A broken arm. A broken rib. Exposure, no! This is not Claquesous_. The thought itself only barely gave Grantaire any comfort. This wasn't Claquesous, but Claquesous wasn't the dangerous one. Montparnasse was. And Enjolras wasn't any different. Fear flared up in his chest, and despite the intense pain in his shoulder Grantaire could only imagine the pain to come.

He exchanged a look with Courfeyrac, not knowing what to do. _Talk around it_ , his brain supplied. But about what? 

"What about it?" Enjolras asked him. His voice had a threatening undertone and his eyebrows were knitted into a deep frown. He crossed his arms. "Did you forget to bring it?"

"No," Grantaire lied, and he thought of an excuse. "We couldn't bring all of it along." If he was going to get punished, he might as well postpone it for a minute or two. "But we have something."

Courfeyrac looked at him with a gaze that was saying 'are you mad!'. Grantaire swallowed and dug his hand into his pocket, nervous. Suddenly his fingers touched the bills he'd taken right before he and Courfeyrac started looting. An idea as stupid as any other he ever had came up in his head. 

Enjolras glared at him. "And how much did you take,"

Grantaire stood himself up from the table. It had to be the pain, he couldn't think of any other reason why he was being so stupid. But, he figured, there was nothing that could save him now. He had to tell Enjolras that he and Courf had forgotten the money, and he could either give in to fear and beg for mercy that wouldn't come, or just be himself and make the best of it. He dug up the bills from his pocket and was surprised to also find some coins he'd gotten as change. 

"About," he stretched, counting the money, "23 euros and 87 cents I'd say." 

The room went quiet. Grantaire didn't see it, but he could feel Courfeyrac's eyes burning a hole in his head. Enjolras looked at the bills, and then he looked at Grantaire. And Grantaire could practically see the flames in his eyes. 

"What?" 

That single word, spoken out with such anger and rage. Grantaire felt himself stumble back against the table. Enjolras stared at him, only now his gaze was not the passive one he'd been casting on Grantaire for over a week now. This one was full of unconcealed anger. 

Grantaire swallowed the fear as best as he could. He wouldn't show weakness in front of Enjolras. He stumbled forward and pressed the money in Enjolras' hand, giving him one final grin. He legs were shaking and there were stars swimming in front of his eyes. He could hear Courfeyrac say something from behind him, and then Enjolras' voice boomed in his ear.

"Are you fucking serious! All this effort, and you forget the money!" Grantaire stumbled back a bit, and once again his ears were ringing. Enjolras was looking at him angrily. And then he addressed Courfeyrac: "How the hell did you forget? You only had to fucking stuff the bag and grab it! This heist cost us a fortune-"

"Because R got fucking shot, Enjolras!" Courfeyrac yelled back at him.

Enjolras, suddenly quiet, turned to Grantaire. He then took a look at the bills in his hand. Grantaire watched him turn the bills, and he saw his eyes widen as he took in the blood on the money, from the hand Grantaire had used to put pressure on his wound. He eyes snapped up at Grantaire.

"I'm so sorry, I thought you just ran-"

That was the moment all energy finally left Grantaire. This last adrenaline rush had finally killed all the fire he still had in him, and he couldn't grab the table before his knees gave in. Now everything was pounding, everything was hurting, and he felt like he was going to die. 

"Hey! Grantaire!"

His knees didn't hit the ground. Instead, Grantaire could see Enjolras dashing towards him and grabbing him under the armpits. The sudden pain in his shoulder made him whimper, but it didn't come through to him. It was only a vague feeling, and dark edges were making their way into his vision. He felt himself going limp. 

"Joly!" he still heard Enjolras scream, and right before his sight disappeared completely he saw Apollo's face looking at him. And the two eyes were filled with deep concern. And all Grantaire could think was:  _why is he saying sorry? Why is he catching me?_

After that he lost all connection, and his head was filled with strange sounds that all merged together before going completely silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank everyone who's still here! I know the E/R is really not going quick but I promise from here on it'll get more prominent. Also thanks a lot for the lovely comments and kudos! By the way, i once again thank my extraordinarily gifted sister for the idea because she demanded to be featured in the notes (but seriously, she's great and i love u darling) so yea that's all for now! bye


	9. The worst wounds are scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my dear readers. I'm back with a new chapter that doesnt end on a cliffhanger. youre welcome. anyway not really much to say but i just have to say  
> For reference, the French school system divides its secondary in two parts; collège (from roughly 11 to 15 years) and Lycée (15-18). So Lycée is basically like High school in America but i decided to still call it Lycée because wow cultural reference. nothing important but just for clarification.  
>  also i tried to find a name for the sling you make for bone fractures for the shoulder and collar bone in English (in my language it literally means 'broad tie' and thats probably not the correct translation) but i couldn't find it so if theres anyone who knows this please it frustrates me to hell to not know what it is. not important at all but would just like to know :) okay thats all

Grantaire wasn't sure how long he'd slept when he woke up when a sudden burst of pain from his shoulder jerked him awake. His eyes snapped open, and he was looking up to a white ceiling and a lamp.

In a second, he was sitting straight up and gazed around; he was in a room with a bed, a nightstand, a shelf and two cabinets, both filled with all kinds of bottles and packages. Sunlight was leaking in from the windows and fell on his face. His head was pounding brutally and there was a nagging sting in his shoulder. Which was, he saw, completely wrapped up in gauze.

"Yeah, you should probably keep lying down for now." 

Grantaire flinched and his breath hitched; he couldn't help it. His reflexes were stronger when he was half-asleep. He jerked around; Joly was standing in the doorway, holding a cup of coffee, still steaming. When he saw Grantaire's reaction, his eyebrows knitted together. It only lasted for maybe a second before Joly turned back to a friendly smile and walked over to him. He set the coffee on the nightstand. "How're you feeling?" 

Grantaire put up a hand to his head and threaded his fingers through his hair, which was even messier than usual. "I'm having a pretty bad headache," he told Joly, "and I'm feeling shaky." He decided to add that as a means to explain his flinching. Though he doubted that Joly would fall for it -being a doctor and all- it was at least worth a try.

Joly hummed and walked over to a cabinet. As he rummaged through it, he told Grantaire: "That's probably the stress from yesterday wearing off. It'll go away." And Grantaire wondered whether he was talking about the headache or the 'shakiness'. He turned back to Grantaire. "Here, this should help." 

Grantaire curiously stared in Joly's stretched-out palm; a white pill. Joly also picked up the coffee from the nightstand, handing the pill and the cup to Grantaire. Grantaire looked at the coffee, then at Joly. "What, too chic for water?" he sarcastically asked. Joly chuckled and rolled his eyes. "Complaining, are we? I made that coffee for myself, be grateful that I'm letting you drink it." 

"That's only because you don't want to get a glass of water." 

Joly exasperatedly gasped in mock-offence: "Excuse me! Don't accuse me of laziness, especially not you. As it happens, I've been busy with you for a while." 

Even though it was obviously supposed to be a joke, Grantaire still felt uncomfortably guilty; he'd caused them so much trouble. Not just Joly; Enjolras must've carried Grantaire to this room. And Courfeyrac had carried him around too. 

He looked up at Joly, trying to hide his anxiety: "What happened yesterday? After I blacked out?" He then quickly swallowed the pill and took a small sip of the steaming coffee to swallow. The bitterness of the coffee surprised him, but immediately distracted him from his headache, which wasn't showing any signs of stopping.

"Well, you blacked out from a combination of blood loss and stress," Joly told him. "Luckily Enjolras was able to catch you, because if you'd banged your head against the table... anyway, only seconds later Courfeyrac collapses, and I'm still working on getting you stable, so Combeferre took care of him." 

Sudden chills ran through Grantaire. He remembered the night, and how he and Courfeyrac had faced considerable dangers. And how Courfeyrac had also had his fair share of stress. "God, how is he?" he softly asked Joly, almost too afraid to. 

Joly apparently noticed his fear, because he clapped him on his good shoulder and shook his head: "Don't worry about him. He was probably just exhausted. You both were. And he's in good hands." 

Grantaire didn't doubt that. Combeferre, he would probably know what to do during an alien invasion, as calm as he always was. And this was Courfeyrac, of course. So he nodded, and Joly pointed to Grantaire's shoulder: "How's that? Can you move it?" 

Grantaire tried moving it, but even the slightest movement was enough to cause a sharp pain. There was also some slight sting in his armpit. Joly watched him, carefully checking his movements. When Grantaire winced, he put a hand on his arm: "I think that's enough for now."

Grantaire, happy to hear this, immediately lowered his arm, and once again felt a soft sting from his armpit. This time it caught his attention, because it felt distinctly different from his shoulder. Up to the point where he wasn't sure whether that was part of the shot wound or something different. He carefully touched it with his hand and told Joly: "I'm feeling, like, a small pain here. I'm not sure if it's just caused by the bullet as well," he explained. "Did I get shot there? Did the bullet damage anything?" 

Joly looked up, and a calculating gaze crossed his face. Grantaire didn't miss it. Joly was nervous about something. The only question was about what. Initially Grantaire feared that Joly had to deliver the horrible news to him that he'd lost ability of his left arm, but for some reason, call it gut or intuition, he didn't believe that that was the case.

When Joly didn't answer, and after ten long seconds, Grantaire decided to ask again: "What? Is my armpit damaged? Or any part of my arm?" The words sounded unintentionally angry, but maybe that tone did the trick. Because Joly cleared his throat and shook his head. "No, I don't think so." 

Grantaire let out a breath he'd been holding in. "Jesus you scared me right there!"

Joly smiled in apology: "Sorry. I mean, it looks...okay," he hesitantly said, "One of your veins got shot, so you lost quite a lot of blood, but the bullet didn't damage the joint or bone. And the vessel will need time, but I burned your shoulder shut, so it won't break soon if you're careful." 

Grantaire smiled. "So I wasn't dying?"

"Oh you were, just very slowly. The gravest was the blood loss, which was pretty bad. Your body's still refilling your blood supply, but you survived it. And Courfeyrac somehow was smart enough to keep you warm, so in the end you were in critical, but relatively safe condition." Joly said in an almost clipped tone. It briefly crossed Grantaire's mind that Joly almost seemed enthusiastic about it like a psychopath would be, but he brushed it aside for his own sake. Then he realised that Joly hadn't answered the first question. And that was suspicious. Of course, he might've just forgotten about it, or just not know it, but that same feeling in his gut told him there was more to it. So he shot a not so subtle look at his armpit. 

Grantaire watched Joly carefully, reading his body language. He wasn't an idiot. If he were, he wouldn't be a medical student. Eventually, Joly sighed, and he said: "I'm not sure what it was. There were bits of metal in your armpit. Maybe from the bullet. I can't tell for sure, I'll need Feuilly to take a look at them." He snatched the coffee from Grantaire's hands, taking a long sip. The message was clear as daylight: Grantaire had to shut up about it. So he just watched Joly drink the remaining coffee. He looked as if he was in need of it, Grantaire noted. Ashy skin, clammy hair and a twitching muscle underneath his eye Grantaire recognised in himself after another sleepless, nightmarish night. Joly downed the coffee as if it were water, wincing at the bitterness. "How long did it take to help me?" he carefully inquired.

"Well," Joly chuckled, "I'm still busy. The shoulder took a while. Thankfully Musichetta had already found the first-aid kit when you fainted, so we could get to work immediately. We brought you over here as soon as we could. I'd guess that was around six. By then we'd stopped the shoulder from bleeding, but I still had to clean it and check the rest of your body. And then I found a second wound in your side, wrapped up that one too. Speaking of," he quickly changed into the next topic, "can I get a look at that?" 

Grantaire nodded; he figured that would be a good idea. So he pushed himself into a sitting position and looked down at his torso to see the wound for himself, as he only very vaguely recalled the shots prior to the one in his shoulder. And indeed, he saw a bandage wrapped around his waist with thick gauze underneath it at the place of injury. And only then did he see that he was topless.

He stared at his stomach, unable to talk.

Prominent and pink against his white skin, there were scars. Scars he hadn't thought about in ages, because no one ever saw them except Montparnasse, and he already knew where they came from. Grantaire looked up at Joly, whose face was blank. 

"Is it okay if I take that off?"

Grantaire couldn't say anything, only nod. He had no idea what to say. Joly had to have seen them. They were impossible to miss. He stared down at his torso, completely void of thought except _cover them!_

He didn't say a word as Joly removed the bandage and gauze. Grantaire felt nervousness build up in his head, and his pulse started shooting up.  _Oh God he saw them!_ Now he would start asking questions. Grantaire resisted the urge to wrap his arms around himself and he waited for Joly to dap the wound with some liquid and whatever else to clean it, too afraid to start a conversation. And the silence that followed was one of the worst. 

In the end, Joly only said: "This one's fine. It's not infected, didn't hit anything. Should hurt for some days, though. As for your arm; don't use it. I'm going to put it in a sling in a minute."

Grantaire was relieved to talk about his arm rather than his torso. He nodded at Joly. "Unless it takes forever to heal."

"Fair enough," Joly shrugged. Then, almost carelessly, he asked: "Say, R, has your arm been broken before?" 

And if he wasn't looking down at Grantaire's stomach, Grantaire might have taken it for a simple remark. But he knew the implication. The way Joly worded it , asking whether his arm had 'been broken' rather than 'have you broken your arm?', already gave it away. He swallowed. "Yeah, when I was in Lycée. Why?" 

Joly pressed more antiseptic to the wound, which caused Grantaire to hiss at the burning sensation. "Nothing, it's just that I noticed the bone seemed a bit uneven, as if it has been broken before and didn't heal right." He shrugged. "It's not that bones always heal perfectly, even with a doctor's help. But your arm looks like it wasn't treated." He pressed his hand on Grantaire's arm, feeling for the bone. 

 _What a surprise_ , Grantaire thought. He'd got that broken arm from Claquesous, for fucking up a heist. It never bothered Grantaire much; as long as he could still shoot with that arm, it was fine to him. And he told Joly so. In response, Joly frowned. 

"I'm just wondering how you got that broken arm."

"Just tripped," Grantaire lied, "nothing special." 

"And what about those?" 

Joly now looked at him, eyes piercing right through Grantaire. Grantaire's pulse had been in the process of slowing down, but now it was shooting up again. He stared back at Joly and couldn't think of anything to say. He couldn't tell him the truth behind those scars. But how could he explain them? He didn't know. He involuntarily shielded his stomach with his arms. A shiver ran over his back.

Joly's eyes were still on him, but when Grantaire looked up again Joly stared at him with pity. "Hey," he calmly said, "you don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."  

 Grantaire silently thanked Joly for being far too reasonable.  _It's because he's a doctor,_ he said to himself as he slowly lowered his arms. When he looked at Joly, friendly yet concerned, he could tell that the man was cut out for it. Medical studies or not. And he felt a twinge of guilt for abusing this kindness offered, but not enough to stop doing it. He was just so tired and didn't want to talk about the past.He lowered his gaze to his lap, the way he'd seen people do when they were ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't apologise," Joly answered. He stood up from the bed. "I'll get you a shirt, okay?" 

Grantaire nodded and barely whispered: "Okay."

"I'm sorry, I should've kept quiet," Joly quickly said while Grantaire was still silently struggling. With one final 'sorry', he turned around and closed the door behind him. Grantaire watched the door. A wave of guilt washed over him. He flopped back on his back and stared at the ceiling, all the while shaking his head in shame. He could see the pity in his eyes. Joly thought he'd been beaten by his parents, and the mere thought disgusted him.

His parents had always been kind to him. In return he insulted them and didn't listen to them, and now he was portraying them like this for nothing but his own sake. The shame was all over him, and he pulled at his hair in frustration. Horrible. He was horrible. 

Tears welled up in his eyes. "Goddamnit," he softly whispered. How he wished he could just see them one more time. To apologise for going to war, scarring them for life. They must have received word from the army that he had died from a bombing, that there wasn't even a body left to bury. Grantaire had thought about his parents all the time: how they would take the news, the sorrow he'd brought them, how they would undoubtedly cry for him and light a candle in church, despite all the shit he pulled on them. 

He furiously wiped the tears in his eyes away. No one could see him like this. It was rule number one: no emotions, because emotions were too dangerous. He breathed in deeply, resolutely staring at the ceiling. And eventually his parents disappeared again, and he was alone. He distractedly traced the scar on his stomach and lost himself to the rhythmic rising and falling of his chest. Memories drifted up again, and soon he wasn't thinking anymore, just remembering.

\-----

Three short knocks fell on the door, forcing Grantaire out of his semi-conscious state. He didn't sit up, only turned his head. As he heard the knob turning, he vaguely wondered who it was; Joly wouldn't knock, so it had to be someone else. And, considering the sharp, short, resolute knocks, he knew who. He instantly pulled the covers up to his chin. And just as he did that, Enjolras entered.

His eyebrows shot up for a moment when he saw Grantaire. He looked surprised, and stood still in the doorway. Grantaire stared back at him, tongue-tied. Enjolras eventually came to his senses and shut the door behind him. After that, his gaze was fixated on Grantaire. Grantaire, covered under the blanket as he was, felt like a child with Enjolras looking at him.

"Hey, you're awake!"A faint smile shone on Enjolras' face as he stalked up to Grantaire. By now, Grantaire wasn't quite ready to just act nice around Enjolras. He was getting increasingly wary of the leader of Les Amis, especially because he hadn't forgotten the punishment Enjolras still hadn't given him. Grantaire wouldn't let himself be tricked into thinking that injury would in any way make it milder. 

"Yeah, only just now," he answered, plastering a smirk on his face. Enjolras had reached the bed by now, and halted at the side. He seemed to scan Grantaire, taking in his face. Grantaire, in return, took a good look at Enjolras: his curls were all over the place and he was still wearing the same clothes as earlier (which wasn't weird at all to notice because a red jacket was just a very notable piece of clothing), but his eyes still shone like fire. Grantaire wondered whether there was anything that could dim that light in his eyes. 

Enjolras had his hands in his pockets, and gestured with his head to Grantaire's shoulder: "How is your shoulder?" Grantaire shrugged: "It's alright. Joly says it'll be fine, I just can't use it for a while. In fact," he said, "he's supposed to put it in a sling for me." He addressed Enjolras next: "Did you see him?" 

Enjolras shook his head. "He might be checking on Courfeyrac," he suggested. "He's been running between the two of you all night." 

"Oh." Grantaire sunk deeper into the mattress. "I'm sorry." He wasn't sure why he was apologising to Enjolras, but then he figured that he might as well. For screwing up.

Enjolras frowned at him, and gave up on standing in favour of setting himself on the bed. "No need to apologise, this is not your fault, Grantaire," he replied. Grantaire shook his head, fiddling with his hands underneath the blanket. "I also mean for the heist," he whispered. "Courf and I... we should've taken the money along. It was really stupid." 

Before he could continue, Enjolras interrupted him with a scoff and an unbelieving laugh. "You shouldn't say sorry for that, either. Combeferre and I were responsible for collecting the money, not you." He sighed, and stared right into the distance. 

"That's also why I'm here." 

Grantaire looked up at him, even though Enjolras wasn't looking back at him. He took in Enjolras' puzzled expression. 

"What for?"

Enjolras shifted on the bed, and looked back down at Grantaire. He took in a deep breath. Grantaire didn't know Enjolras for more than about a week, but he knew this sign: Enjolras was about to tell a long story. So he braced himself. But just as Enjolras was about to start talking, the door opened again. Both Enjolras and Grantaire looked up to the door; and there was Joly, with a sling and a t-shirt. He smiled at Grantaire, and then greeted Enjolras: "Morning, Enj" 

"Hi Joly," Enjolras replied. Joly then walked over to Grantaire. He held up the shirt decorated with a sport's logo on it. He tossed it to Grantaire. "There you go, it should fit."

"What happened to my own?" 

"It got bloody beyond repair," Enjolras dryly answered. He shot an apologetic look at Grantaire. "Besides, it was reaching its end already, regardless of the blood." 

Grantaire nodded slowly, and looked at Joly for confirmation. When Joly nodded as well, he sighed and rolled his eyes. "Whatever, but in that case I want to get some fresh clothes. My own." He emphasised that to clearly show his idea.

"You mean you want to go to your apartment?" Joly asked with a sceptical look and crossed arms. Grantaire nodded back, because that was exactly what he wanted. "To collect some clothes, maybe some of my painting tools and such." And, most importantly, he wanted to leave a message for Claquesous to meet him. He knew that Montparnasse was waiting for information, and now he finally had the time. At least, if Joly allowed it.

And that might just be more difficult than he thought.

"Well, R, you can't use your arm," Joly protested. "Are you gonna move stuff with one arm?" He raised his eyebrows at Grantaire.

"I'll go along." 

Grantaire turned his head to Enjolras, who shrugged and turned to Joly. "I can help with moving and I can drive us there. If you want me to, of course," he addressed Grantaire. Once again, he had a soft, almost tender smile. Though Grantaire really didn't feel like spending time with Enjolras, he wanted to go to his apartment, even if it would involve the arrogant stuck-up Apollo. He reminded himself of arms catching him, and told himself that it might not be so bad.

"Can I go?" he asked Joly, with a slightly pleading tone. 

Joly frowned a bit, but as his eyes darted between Enjolras and Grantaire, he sighed. "I guess it can't hurt, but let me put your arm in a sling first. Also," he turned to Enjolras again: "is it safe for you to drive? You've been up all night?" 

All night? What had Enjolras been up to? Grantaire could grasp that there was some talking to be done about the failed heist, but how could that possibly take that long? Especially since Courfeyrac and Combeferre both weren't there. That was strange. 

"Well, I'm used to long nights," Enjolras shrugged, bringing Grantaire back to the conversation. "I don't get particularly worse at driving from that." 

Grantaire took a good look at Enjolras; he did indeed see the signs of little sleep in his hair and clothes, but not in his eyes, which were blazing as always (getting Grantaire to his apartment was apparently another one of his great causes). Compared to Joly, Enjolras only looked as if he'd taken a small nap. But then, Joly was probably under a lot more of stress. Grantaire immediately registered this; Apollo was awake at night.  _That means I can't sneak out at night._

Joly also briefly examined Enjolras, tested his reflexes and his responsiveness. After a few tests, he nodded in approval. "Alright, I'll let you two go. But only to get some stuff. And you"- he pointed to Grantaire- "are not doing any carrying, not even with your right arm. Understood?"

"Yes Mom," Grantaire replied with mock innocence. Joly lightly shoved him, and though it was only for a moment, Grantaire thought he saw Enjolras smile. Then Joly addressed Enjolras, making him look away from Grantaire. Joly said: "I'll just put his arm in a sling and help him into his shirt." Enjolras nodded. "I'll get the car started," he said, with a sideway look at Grantaire. Their eyes briefly met, and Grantaire saw something flicker in Apollo's. Then he strode out, leaving Grantaire with Joly again. Grantaire thought about Enjolras' words right before Joly came in. That's what I came for. 

No doubt he would get to hear it in the car. 

Joly didn't waste a second. He closed the door behind Enjolras and walked back to Grantaire. And then he softly asked: "Do you want me to help you or would you rather do it yourself?" 

The implication was clear. Grantaire could either accept the help and save himself a lot of trouble or stick to his privacy when he would peel the blankets away. His initial preference was, of course, to be left alone, but there was not really any urgency behind it as Joly had already seen them. Then again, it would probably give Joly a chance to ask about them. That made Grantaire hesitate again. In the end, he decided to let Joly help him. He didn't want to risk damaging his shoulder. Joly gave him a slight nod, and gestured him to sit up. Grantaire felt a twinge of discomfort at the idea, but still shoved himself upright. The blanket fell from his posture, and he could see Joly's eyes dart to his stomach. 

Without a word, Joly picked up his arm and pushed it through a sleeve. Grantaire could feel a slight sting, but he kept himself from making a sound. He quietly waited for his chance to speak while Joly helped him into his shirt. It was when Joly positioned his arm horizontally with the order of keeping it still that Grantaire decided to start ask one question. 

"Why do you think he wants to go to my apartment?"

Joly looked up at Grantaire, sling in his hands, and went in a pensive state. Grantaire had a theory of his own; he thought Enjolras would probably both check everything in his apartment and scold him (and more, but no thinking about that now) for his mistakes. But he wanted to hear Joly's advice and expectations as well.

He looked at Joly expectantly, and was surprised when the other just shrugged and said: "I think he just wants to do something for you." 

That caught Grantaire off guard. He was slightly baffled for a moment while Joly folded the cloth into a rectangular strip. When Joly wrapped it around his arm, he finally managed to talk: "What? Why?" Joly attached the sling to Grantaire's good shoulder. "Ask him yourself." 

"But- I messed up! Isn't he angry at me?" 

At that, Joly shook his head resolutely. "No, he was only worried. Really worried. He's been here almost all night. After he caught you, he insisted on checking on you every few thirty minutes." 

Those words confused Grantaire to the core. Enjolras? Apollo worried? About him? Something didn't add up. But just as was about to ask Joly just what he meant, Joly stood up from the bed and walked over to the shelf. He grabbed something out of it and walked back to Grantaire, shoving the item on his lap. Or rather said, items. Because these were his boots. Grantaire's first reaction was fear, and he had to keep every fibre in his body stiff to avoid spastically snatching the shoes. That was the second time someone had taken his boots off. He really had to find a way to fix that problem. 

"You go dress up and gather your stuff. I'm going to check on Courfeyrac." Grantaire shot him a thumbs-up, and carefully shifted to let his feet hit the ground. When Joly saw that he could manage himself, he walked out and left Grantaire alone again. Grantaire stared after him, the question still on his mind. 

He picked his boots from the bed and placed them in front of himself. He could feel a wave of relief hit him when his fingers felt the hilt of his knives hidden in the fabric. With almost automatic movements he put them on. It was slightly harder to do with only one arm, but that didn't matter, because he had to take a moment to get his act together. Even if it wasn't more than Enjolras taking him to his apartment, he felt conflicted. About the situation, about the way Enjolras behaved, about Enjolras in general. He passed out that night in fear of the punishment to come, and suddenly Enjolras is worried about him. One moment he's looking at Grantaire as if he's ready to kill, the next he has this panicked fear in his eyes as he catches him. Now he wanted to 'do something' for him. And the reason it was so off-putting was because Grantaire couldn't figure out how it worked. Just what Enjolras thought about him. 

His head was still sluggish and dizzy, and the contemplating probably only made it worse. Grantaire wasn't sure how long Enjolras would take to come back, so he went back to lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. All the while, he distractedly traced the scars on his stomach, and all that was going on in his mind was Enjolras. 

The problem was the internal dilemma between his ratio and his emotions. His logical thinking was telling him that he was making a mistake, that he was trusting where there was no good reason to. Enjolras had only very recently started treating Grantaire with anything less than disdain, and experience had taught him that there were people who knew how to exploit others with nothing but a few friendly gestures.  _There's always people trying to get to you._

But Grantaire was a romantic. His emotional side was stronger. He knew he was too quick to trust, that he was making the same mistake as before, and he couldn't do anything about it. He was starved for something other than being used as a tool, he wanted to accept all kindness, even if it wasn't for the purposes he wanted it to be. And there was that tiny voice in his head that said  _Montparnasse would not have caught you. Montparnasse would not have looked at you like that._

Which was bullshit, because that was exactly what he'd done, albeit completely faked. Grantaire sighed and his fingers touched the long scar again. He was working himself into a corner. He hadn't expected Les Amis to be like this; they were friendly, caring, or at least that's what they felt like. 

His fingers rimmed over the damaged skin. _Friendly and caring. Just like Montparnasse._

And he couldn't stop the bitter laugh that followed.

\----

"Alright, last one." The army doctor announced. Grantaire nodded and lay down as still as he could. He could feel the doctor pressing on his stomach, knowing that he was stitching the wound with one last stitch despite being given anaesthesia. The thought of someone sowing his skin was uncomfortable, and he was happy he couldn't see it from his position. 

"Alright," the doctor semi-cheerfully said, "now I'll just tie the ends together and then it's all done again." Grantaire nodded again. "Can I leave right away?" 

"No, for now we need to check whether it's not getting inflamed or infected." He gestured Grantaire to sit up. "Grenade shards are not exactly hygienic, and especially the abdomen harbours a lot of organs that you cannot risk getting inflamed." 

Grantaire carefully sat up and finally took a look at his stomach; the long red line, still bloody and seemingly barely held together by the stitches, looked like it belonged in a crappy, gory horror film. _Disgusting_ , he starkly thought. And apparently it was showing on his face, because the army doctor laughed out loud. 

"It wasn't a very deep cut, so you'll be able to walk around quickly. Just make sure those stitches don't break." With that, he stood up and excused himself: "I have more people to attend to. You'll be fine. It will scar, but you'll be just alright." 

Grantaire was still looking at the carnage done to his stomach. It looked awful, and it would only make an even worse scar. God, how typical it was; he ended up injured during his first training. Not his first conflict, but his first training, because some idiot wasn't careful enough with his grenade. And he would get a memoir of it in the shape of a long line all across his stomach. When the doctor talked, he looked up at him. 

"Won't I get some medicine to ensure it won't infect?"

The doctor shot him a teasing smile. "Well, does it hurt?"

"No."

"Then you don't need anything," he teased Grantaire. "I'm not your GP, I'm an army doctor. If there's anything I don't have, it's the amount of medicine needed to please the average Frenchman." He gave Grantaire a mocking salute. "Be happy you're not on actual battle-ground. It's always the same; the new recruits still expect to get ten prescriptions for the flu. Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Makes you stronger." 

"I'd rather be healthy," Grantaire mumbled under his breath while the doctor walked away. He looked down at his stomach and wondered just how he couldn't even get one pain killer for when the anaesthesia stopped working. He knew the French used too much medicine, but was this really that much to ask for?

"Hello, Grantaire, isn't it?" 

The sudden voice surprised Grantaire. His first thought was that it was the doctor again. However, when he looked up from his stomach, he looked into an unfamiliar face.

Next to his bed stood a young man. He looked about Grantaire's age or maybe even younger, with very dark hair and stark green eyes. And Grantaire couldn't help the little thought in his head;  _this guy looks very handsome._

Luckily, he didn't forget to respond to him or anything. He politely smiled at him and answered: "Yes, that's me." He gestured to the man. "Which would make you..." he intentionally trailed off, waiting for this man -or better said, boy, as he couldn't be much older than early twenties- to fill the gap. 

"It's Montparnasse," the man answered, with a ghost of a smile on his lips. "We're in the same regiment for our training." He looked at Grantaire with an expectant gaze. Grantaire, as weird as it sounded, couldn't recollect ever seeing this man before. And that was strange, because he was pretty sure he'd remember a face like Montparnasse's. Still, he didn't really think much of it. So he shrugged and said: "Well, I suppose we were on the same side during this small excercise we just had?" 

Montparnasse nodded. "Yes, though I was just a regular soldier, while you were sniper." Then, his face fell a bit, and he continued: "I came here to apologise. I threw my grenade, and it didn't get as far as I'd planned it to come, so that's why it exploded so close to you. It wasn't my intention." 

Grantaire mentally rolled his eyes at the last sentence. He had already expected that it wasn't the culprit's intention to injure him. But he controlled himself, and instead assured Montparnasse: "It's okay. I'll survive," he said, and he grinned a bit at Montparnasse. "I've already got my first scar." 

Montparnasse grinned as well at that. "That's true." Then, he shifted back into a more serious face. "But seriously, I'm really sorry. It could've ended much worse and it would be thanks to me. And I just wanted to apologise to you personally." 

Grantaire couldn't help it: a warm feeling spread through him after having a handsome man direct such attention to him. On the inside, he was already shaming himself for being so shallow. Always going for the looks. Not a good habit.

He looked up at Montparnasse and tried to put on a convincing smile. "Thanks. I don't blame you, if that's what you think. I personally blame the direction for letting us use grenades as carelessly in the first place." 

"I'll tell them to work on it," Montparnasse dryly answered, "I have to go there anyway." 

Grantaire chuckled a bit. "To explain yourself, or?" 

Montparnasse nodded, and he added: "Probably just to get scolded."

He looked over his shoulder at the clock hanging on the wall, and then back to Grantaire. He apologetically pointed over his shoulder. "I should probably go." 

Grantaire nodded again, not knowing exactly what to say. In the end, he decided on 'hope you don't get in trouble over this'. 

Montparnasse grinned at him, and turned to look at Grantaire one last time. 

"See you around?" 

Grantaire felt the beginnings of a blush developing. And he knew that this was the right moment to say goodbye. So he laughed and said: "Of course. For now, though, goodbye and good luck. If you need me, you can find me here for now." 

Montparnasse smiled at him, and definitely turned around, walking away. Grantaire watched him go, with a feeling that this Montparnasse, no matter how, was going to change a lot of things around here.

And he couldn't possibly have been more right.

\--------

"Hey, are you ready to go?" 

Grantaire, still sunken in his thoughts, was even too surprised to react. He lifted his head up and saw Enjolras looming over him. His golden curls fell all over his face and he was looking intently at Grantaire. "You alright?" 

_You remind me of someone_

Grantaire shoved it aside. He smiled at Enjolras and answered: "No, I'm fine. And ready to go," he said. Enjolras raised his eyebrows, but nodded nevertheless. "Alright, I have the car ready to go." Hesitantly, he stuck his hand out to Grantaire. "Do you need help?" 

Grantaire stared at the hand in front of him. He didn't need it, but he accepted anyway. Enjolras clasped his hand and pulled him up. Grantaire barely had the time to move himself. Enjolras had a strong and firm grip, and the sudden pull was much harder than Grantaire had expected. 

Before he could catch himself, he doubled over and fell forward, with a cry on his lips. Enjolras, just as surprised, let out an 'oomph' and stumbled backward. 

Grantaire wasn't completely aware what was happening, just that he was falling on Enjolras. Suddenly there was a pair of arms around him. 

Grantaire's breath stuck in his throat. Enjolras accidentally brushed his side, but it barely even hurt. A blush crept up his cheeks, and that immediately caused trouble; he had to get his face off Enjolras' chest, but then Enjolras would see him blushing. So he didn't move, embarrassed. And the worst was that Enjolras also didn't move, and still had his arms on his waist. 

"Are you, ehm, are you okay?" He heard Enjolras ask, sounding uncertain. Grantaire snapped out of his embarrassment. Blush or no blush, he couldn't remain in this position. He lifted his face from Enjolras, and at the same time he felt Enjolras pulling him upright again. Then, the arms disappeared. Grantaire looked up at Enjolras. 

Enjolras stared at him. And maybe it was the paracetamol working on him, but Grantaire truly couldn't take his eyes off him. He truly looked angelic, gold and alive. He was looking at Grantaire, with an unsure gaze. And Grantaire could swear there was worry in those green eyes. Again, he thought. I've seen those before. 

_Yesterday night, when he caught me._

_A week ago, when I flinched back._

__

_A year ago, when Montparnasse and I met._

"Are you feeling good?" Enjolras asked again, with that soft voice and a hesitant in the air, still stuck out to Grantaire.  

"I'm fine," Grantaire answered, "Let's go." 

Without looking back to check if Enjolras was following him, he walked out the door.

_Don't fall for it. You did before._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly thank you so much for all the comments and kudos! It makes me so happy to get those! Also feel free to give me criticism. I'll take it to get better! This one also wasn't beta-ed (well i did edit it and all but no one else read it), so it might contain a few mistakes. again thank you so much!


	10. Building bridges (over troubled water)

"There's some things I want to say."

Grantaire quit his staring at the road and turned to Enjolras. Finally, there were the words he'd been waiting for. He wasn't ready for this conversation. During their silent drive, only very briefly interrupted by a few words, he'd figure that Enjolras was not just bringing him to his apartment. He still hadn't scolded Grantaire, or anything like that. Grantaire knew what was coming. 

He could understand from the tone that he should give some sort of consent, so he shifted in his seat (despite the sting in his shoulder it caused) and asked: 

"It's about the heist, isn't it?"  

Enjolras nodded. "It is. Do I turn left here?" 

"No, right." Grantaire answered, "I live in the 19th arrondissement." 

Enjolras' eyes briefly darted to the right, as if it was actually surprising that Grantaire lived in the poorest district of Paris. Grantaire, amused at the idea of the clean, rich leader of Les Amis having to walk around in his neighbourhood, cocked his eyebrow at Enjolras with a smirk, pushing the slight dread he felt down. "What's wrong? Never been there, have you?" He didn't wait for Enjolras to answer. "Well, what a surprise." 

Enjolras stopped for a red light. "I have been there. A few times," he said with a hint of indignation. "Also, there's nothing wrong. Why would you think that?"

"Because you looked at me as if I told you I lived on a dumping ground." 

"No I didn't!" Enjolras fiercely denied, and Grantaire could almost hear him say  _but the truth of the matter is it's two similar things_. "I just expected you to live somewhere else." 

"Oh really?" Grantaire chuckled, "I'm flattered, I guess." He was happy to have this conversation. Anything was better than the heist. It would come eventually, but for now, he could happily talk about his homing situation. The light became green, and Enjolras sped off and turned right. Grantaire watched him. Even during driving he looked deeply concentrated. Grantaire wondered if that was just his natural face: permanently curved into a frown. Or was Apollo anxious about visiting the poorest part of town? And it was almost as if Enjolras could read his mind, because he proceeded to say: "I mean, we go there all the time, but usually for business." 

"Ah," Grantaire answered. In his neighbourhood, 'business' was a synonym for 'illegal activity'. He knew this very well: his entire apartment complex was composed of small 'businesses'. "Like that."  

"Yeah," Enjolras said, "I didn't take you for that kind of person." 

Even though it was hardly a compliment, Grantaire smiled at it. "Thanks," he sarcastically said, "I'm not really like my neighbours, if that's what you think. I just happen to have no money for anything better."

Enjolras nodded as he drove. They were entering the 19th arrondissement. "Is that why you joined us? For money, I mean." 

Grantaire racked his brains for an instant. What could he say? "Well," he started. He remembered a week earlier, when Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac were talking about him. Courfeyrac had mentioned money as a possible persuasive. 

He awkwardly chuckled and scratched his neck. Enjolras was still quiet, waiting for him to talk. He had to say something. 

"Well, that's not really working for me, with the heist," he joked, and tried to ignore just how awful his answer was. It didn't respond to Enjolras' question at all. And even worse, it changed the topic to what he didn't want to talk about. He tried to tell himself that it would be better get to it. Enjolras hadn't forgotten because of some talking about Grantaire's crappy neighbourhood. Grantaire wasn't that lucky in life. Enjolras took his eyes off the road and stared at Grantaire with some strange look in his eyes. Grantaire wasn't sure what it meant. But before he could think about it, Enjolras averted his gaze. He didn't respond to Grantaire's comment at all.  

Grantaire watched the buildings turn more and more dishevelled as they got closer to his house. Enjolras' face, in the meantime, contorted into graduating levels of horror as they got closer to destination. And if the tension in the car hadn't been as high as it was, Grantaire would've laughed about it. But now that they were getting closer, they both knew their time to procrastinate was running out. And it turned into an unbearable ambiance. Eventually, Grantaire gave up. He sat himself upright and turned to Enjolras.  

"I didn't really get the chance to properly apologise back then, so I'll do it again: I'm sorry. For the heist failing, for not being able to take out the cops at the front, and for ridiculing you yesterday. With the money." His heart was pounding in his chest and he could not find any courage in himself, not even enough to face Enjolras. He inhaled a shaky breath. "I know it was inappropriate and that I should have gone to the assigned place with Courfeyrac, but I was shot and I couldn't think straight." 

He was stuttering and nervously pushing his nails into his palms.  _What am I doing?_  he desperately wondered. 

"Grantaire?" Enjolras asked hesitantly, "I told you; that's not your fault. You were not responsible for the money. I was, along with Combeferre and Joly. And Courfeyrac, but not you-" 

"Stop here." Grantaire said. The conversation had distracted him from his apartment, but now that he was driving past it, the crumbling walls drew his attention again. It was brutally shocking to see his flat again after staying in the villa of Les Amis de l'ABC, and Enjolras was having trouble with it as well. Grantaire saw it happening. An amused smile made its way to the surface. "Jesus, you really are a spoilt brat, aren't you?"

"Don't call me that!" Enjolras snapped, driving into a parking spot. "I don't think anyone would be happy to live here." 

 _Yeah, tell me about it,_ Grantaire thought while Enjolras pulled the parking break. He opened the door to his car and stepped out into the streets where the roadwork probably hadn't been done since the asphalt had been applied.  _Home sweet home_. 

"You're not supposed to be happy about living here," he answered. Enjolras walked over to him, and he turned around to face him. "But the rent doesn't get better," he shrugged. 

"Even when you're paying rent for nothing but trash?"

"Hey," Grantaire scoffed in mock-offence, "that's my house you're talking about." Enjolras smiled at that, and he rolled his eyes. "Whatever. Let's take a look." Grantaire shrugged. He opened the main entrance and gestured Enjolras to follow. 

He lead Enjolras up the stairs to his own apartment. Enjolras took to looking down on every step before he put his foot on it, as if he were afraid it would collapse under his weight. When the first person started yelling at them to keep quiet, Enjolras looked like he was ready to barge in and straight-up murder them. Every inch of Enjolras reflected the classy lifestyle he'd been raised with. Grantaire vaguely wondered whether he'd looked that way too, when he first started living here. When they arrived at the door of his own apartment, a sudden paranoia overcame him that Claquesous or anyone else of Patron-Minette had accidentally left traces in his apartment when they'd broken in. Or worse: that they were inside. If he opened that door right now and there were traces or people...

Grantaire lingered in front of the door, the key in his hand, staring at the lock. And suddenly he realised the opportunity he had. 

_You're alone with the leader of Les Amis in your own apartment with knives in your boots._

It almost seemed too easy. All he'd have to do was stab Enjolras and run away. Report to Montparnasse and use Enjolras' phone to trick the others into running right into Montparnasse's claws. His job would be done. So simple, almost self-explanatory.

"Grantaire?" Enjolras called out to him. Grantaire snapped out of his thought process and he shoved the key in the lock. 

He became aware of the silence between them. As he pushed the door open, he plastered on a smirk and bowed deeply: "I present to you, boss, my humble residence. Do feel welcome." 

Enjolras stared at him with an unreadable expression. Blank. Next, he walked into Grantaire's apartment and looked around. 

That was not the effect Grantaire had hoped for. Enjolras hadn't even shown disdain; he'd looked at Grantaire as if he was suspicious of something. Or was that just his paranoia speaking? The mere thought made his hands sweat. He forced himself to stand up straight and followed Enjolras in before closing the door behind him. 

Enjolras was standing in the middle of his living room/kitchen/dining room/bedroom, looking around. He had his back turned to Grantaire. Grantaire stood motionless in the doorway. His brain was telling him what he already knew:  _now is your chance!_

In one swift motion, he released the keys in his hand from his grip. They clattered on the ground, and for extra performance Grantaire muttered a curse before crouching. Low to the ground, he let his hand slide into his boot and he poked the keys with his right foot to mask the sound. Years of practice paid off, because he could pull the blade out in one fluent motion. Its silver shone coldly in the sunlight. 

Content with himself, Grantaire tucked it in his trousers. He then picked up the keys from the floor and stood up again. Enjolras still had his back turned to him. Grantaire slid the keys into his pockets and moved his hand to rest on his hip. He could feel the knife against his palm, and chills ran through him. 

"So what exactly did you want to get again?" Enjolras asked him, now walking around with small steps. Grantaire forced himself to concentrate on the question. He had to appear casual, or Enjolras would predict his attack. He wasn't taking any risks. 

"Just some clothes, and some painting tools." He tried to sound normal, but his entire body was shaking, and as a result, he couldn't keep his voice flat. He stuttered. 

As soon as the words had left his mouth, a mix of anger and fear went through him. He weakly looked at Enjolras' back, hand still on the knife. All hope that maybe it didn't sound as clear as he'd thought evaporated when he could see Enjolras' head lift up and turn to the side a bit. And then he started turning around. 

In those two seconds that passed, Grantaire could barely manage to shove the hilt into his trousers, drape the shirt he was wearing over it and shove his hand in his pocket. But he couldn't stop himself from shivering. Every muscle in his body was tense, and he couldn't relax before Enjolras turned around. First with his head, then with his torso and eventually with his entire body, so that he was standing face to face with Grantaire. Immediately, he looked Grantaire straight in the eye, and something in his gaze sparked before his eyes narrowed. The way he looked at Grantaire sent even more shivers down his spine, and that reached the optimum when he asked: "What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" Grantaire answered panickedly. His answer only resulted in a more calculated gaze from Enjolras. He walked a few steps closer to Grantaire, examining his face. 

"You look nervous," Enjolras commented, and there was an accusatory tone in his voice. "Are you alright?" The question did not sound caring: it sounded suspecting. Grantaire swallowed and clawed the inside of his pocket nervously. Enjolras was so close. Within knife's range.

The plan resurfaced in his head. Grantaire noticed how the distance would be too small for Enjolras to evade. He started retracting his hand from his pocket and was readying himself to grab the knife and strike Enjolras in the throat, but just as he was about to begin, one word appeared in his head: 

_Why?_

His first logical reaction was  _because then my job is done._ Still, just as he was about to resume his action, he stopped himself and averted his gaze to the ground. 

_Why now?_

Why would he do this right now? He'd have a body to deal with, plus all of Les Amis. Montparnasse would not reward him. He would get money, sure, but what did it matter if he completed his task in one week or one month? 

Right there, in the middle of his apartment, it dawned on Grantaire that he could stretch this ordeal for months. Les Amis treated him significantly better than the Patron-Minette. He would have to get to it eventually, but why would he finish this already when he could draw so much more profit from it?

Let it be, he told himself, and he slid his hand deep into his pocket again.

He looked up at Enjolras, and let out a breath. "I'm fine." 

Enjolras frowned at him. "You're not. Don't do that. Is there something you want to tell me or do you think there's something wrong?" 

Grantaire combed a hand through his hair and quickly thought about good reasons to be nervous. He had decided not to kill Enjolras just yet, but that didn't mean that he could stop being careful. Luckily, he easily came up with an excuse for his nervousness. He'd forgotten about it in a rush of adrenaline, but now it came back to him. And with it the same anxiety.

He sighed again and averted his gaze to the floor. 

"Just tell me what you're planning on doing." He was sure Enjolras was about to ask him what he meant, so he continued: "I know there's a reason you wanted to be alone with me. And you should be honest with me. It's because of the heist. We're here for reprimand, aren't we?" 

He concentrated on keeping his head down. Montparnasse had once told him that:  _Look down, at least try to appear ashamed and I might call Claquesous to a halt. Remember that next time._  

His blood boiled from the mere memory. Montparnasse commanded him around like a dog and had the audacity to give him fucking advice on showing remorse. It wasn't as if he  _had_ ever called Claquesous to a halt when he started kicking Grantaire. It was one of his moves to give Grantaire false hope that there was a system, one Grantaire could follow to avoid the worst. It took him a while to stop believing Montparnasse. There were no rules. All there was, was right or wrong. And wrong, no matter how small, was punished with ferocity. 

The memory of Claquesous beating him senseless filled Grantaire with fear. He was shaking again, only this time it wasn't adrenaline. He was trying to prepare himself for rage, but he couldn't. He stared at his feet, and waited in dread for Enjolras. 

But nothing came. From the corner of his eyes, Grantaire didn't see Enjolras move. He also didn't say anything. He only heard Enjolras draw in a breath, and rather sharply at that. 

"Grantaire..." Enjolras softly said, "I did not take you here to punish you." 

"Yeah right," Grantaire answered back, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. "You said you wanted to talk about the heist. What else is there to fucking talk about!" 

Enjolras did not look angry at all. Contrarily, he looked shocked. He shook his head. 

"I wasn't planning on blaming you for that. I wanted to thank you." 

Grantaire wasn't expecting that. He was readying himself for confirmation, and when Enjolras' words came through to him, he couldn't even keep himself from spontaneously showing his confusion: "What?" He stared at Enjolras with a gaze he could feel looked dumb. Thank him? That was the only thing he had not seen coming at all. 

"Courf told me what happened," Enjolras explained. He cast a spare glance at Grantaire's shoulder. "If you hadn't jumped in front of him, he could've died." His voice, Apollo's godlike voice trembled when he spoke the word 'died'. "I really don't know how thank you properly. It's not that I only help you with this stuff and then call it a day, but I wanted to talk to you in private, that's all." 

Grantaire could not easily switch this quickly. One moment he was trying to kill Enjolras, the next he was scared to death of Enjolras and the next Enjolras was suddenly thanking him. 

"Of course I would," he stuttered out. He tried to smile at Enjolras and added: "Anytime, always ready." 

Enjolras smiled back at him. But suddenly, it disappeared, and he cleared his throat. He stuck his hands in his pockets. 

"There's more. I also want to apologise." 

Grantaire did not bother to ask why; he could see that Enjolras was about to tell him. 

Enjolras spoke up again, his gaze averted to the ground: "I've been... harsh to you. I wasn't sure about you. Because you opposed my views, I was convinced that you weren't who you were telling us you were. Sorry about being unnecessarily hostile."

Grantaire was at a loss of words. So he cleared his throat to avoid another silence and said the only thing he could think of: "Thanks. I'm sorry about being so difficult." And he gestured to his apartment. "Let me choose a bunch of clothes and stuff. Can you maybe get my painting tools please?"

"Yes, of course," Enjolras responded after a silence a bit too long. Grantaire wanted to ask him whether there was something wrong, but Apollo was already speeding to the corner of his all-purpose room, where his paintings and the tools were still respectively standing and lying about as when he'd seen them for the last time. A small relief made its way into his chest; Claquesous hadn't touched his paintings. 

"Grantaire?" Enjolras quietly asked, "I just want to start again, and try to not loose my temper again."

Grantaire heard the guilt in those words, and that filled him with guilt of his own. A few minutes ago, he'd been planning to stab Enjolras, while Enjolras was preparing an apology and a thank-you. 

He shook his head; why was he feeling this guilty. Enjolras was his target, his target! This was bad. He could not let this happen. 

As he walked over to his closet and opened the doors, he could hear Enjolras scuffling in the background. He himself was just about to take a look at his clothes when Enjolras' voice caught his attention:   
 _"A starry fight?"_

Grantaire slowly turned around to see Enjolras looking at the painting. He'd completely forgotten about it. But there it was, standing on an easel in its horrible, violent glory, and Enjolras was looking at it intently. Grantaire watched his face for a moment, and upon seeing that Enjolras' eyes were looking puzzling, he decided that this was a bad thing.

"Yeah, not my best one," he commented in an attempt to appear casual. He then looked back into his closet and started rummaging around in order to not show Enjolras that he was nervous. "Definitely not one I'm proud of." 

He expected that to suffice, that Enjolras would just forget about it and continue collecting painting tools. So when Enjolras replied it surprised him. 

"I mean, it's definitely not Van Gogh's style," he remarked, "but the setting sort of looks the same. With all the light in the sky." 

 _Light in the sky,_ that's what Enjolras called it. Grantaire wondered whether he was deliberately not using the word 'bullets', but the fact that Enjolras even understood the reference was more than he'd expected. On one hand Apollo looked like he'd had a 'classical' education, on the other he did not seem to care much for art, or at least Grantaire didn't take him for that kind of person. 

"Yeah, I don't really like Van Gogh," he answered, "I prefer Monet." He wanted to see how much Enjolras would have to say about art. He saw potential: this was his field of expertise. 

Enjolras frowned: "Monet has some good paintings, but I still prefer older ones. From Delacroix, or Rembrandt." 

Grantaire scoffed: "Of course you do." 

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Enjolras asked him, sounding stuck between playfully and genuinely offended. Grantaire rolled his eyes.

"Well, they're just more fitting for you. Accurate, realistic, boringly competent," Grantaire listed. Enjolras cut him off at 'boringly competent'. "It's not boring. It's highly impressive." 

"So is impressionism," Grantaire sing-sang. He was surprised Enjolras was holding up in this conversation. Maybe he'd underestimated his knowledge of art a bit, but it was up for debate whether Enjolras would survive some more complex terms. 

It turned out he could: Enjolras put his hand on his hip in a challenging manner and cocked his head. "And what would you say is so special about impressionism?"

Grantaire was distracted by the sight before him; he was already telling himself that Enjolras standing in a different pose was not something worth noticing, but in the end his logic didn't win and he took a brief moment to admire the beauty Enjolras radiated before shaking himself awake. He wasn't letting himself get carried away with this, at least not yet. He could not deny that Enjolras was attractive. Trying it would just be beating a dead horse, he started to realise that. 

"Well, impressionist paintings always have an atmosphere to them that you can't find in realist paintings," he told Enjolras. "An ambiance the painter personally felt when creating the painting." 

"Is that so?" Enjolras questioned. His face had changed a bit, and now he looked truly interested. Grantaire felt a flare of pride in his chest at the idea of telling people what he knew best. "Yeah, impressionist paintings are very clearly made by their artist. Realist paintings can be made by anyone, but impressionist artists make their art unique to themselves." 

Enjolras nodded absent-mindedly, and suddenly he looked away into the distance. Then, he turned around and asked: "What was the inspiration for this one?"

Grantaire looked at the dark sky with bullets and fire, the town below blown to bits.  _Deir ez-Zor_ , he bitterly thought to himself, _that's the inspiration_. A small part of a town that was obliterated.

But, of course, that wasn't what he could say to Enjolras. 

He stared at his canvas, and felt it work its magic on him; a heavy feeling of dread filled him and the longer he looked at it, the more he felt the desire to get out of his apartment.

 

"A movie," he answered. Enjolras' eyebrows knit together. He wasn't buying this. Grantaire knew he wasn't buying this. But, for some reason, he nodded. "I think you should be proud of it. It's a very powerful painting." He turned to Grantaire. "Do you want me to put it in the car?"

Grantaire's first instinct was no. He should have burnt it the same night he'd made it. Now it was there, and Enjolras had seen it. He couldn't just get rid of it. And what good would it do to keep it here; it would only get buried in dust. 

He nodded, and while Enjolras picked it up, he hid his face in his closet. He could hear Enjolras slowly walking out the door. 

_Why would you even kill him at all?_  And that question repeated itself. It drummed in his skull when Enjolras walked to the door with his back turned to Grantaire. And Grantaire could not find a decent answer. 

As soon as Enjolras had made his way out of Grantaire's apartment, Grantaire got moving; he still had to leave a note for Claquesous. It was the goal of this little visit to his apartment. He walked over to his bookcase, pulled a paper sketchbook out and tore out a page. He had pencils lying on the floor everywhere. After having picked up one he listened for sounds of the stairs. 

He didn't hear any creaking, so he guessed that Enjolras was already downstairs. As soon as he was going up again, the creaking would give it away. Now, he could get to work.

He decided to use the bookcase as a flat surface to write on. Before he started, he carefully listened again, but he didn't hear anything. The coast was clear.

As quick as he could, he scribbled down a message: 

_Tomorrow at the Casino Supermarché, 12 a.m._

He didn't give any more information. He was telling Claquesous everything he needed to know, a time and place. And he already had a plan for going there. He stuck the torn-out page in the pocket of his jeans and randomly grabbed some clothes from his closet for Enjolras when he came back. It took about a minute before Grantaire heard the heavy, long steps approach. When Enjolras entered his apartment, he saw the pile of clothes dangling from Grantaire's right arm. He pointed at them while looking at Grantaire: "Are you done choosing your clothes?" 

Grantaire nodded. "Yeah, this should be enough," he said. 

"Alright," Enjolras carefully pulled the clothes from Grantaire's arm. "Let's get this in the car then." 

They ended up going up twice more, one time for some books and painting tools and the last time for small things, like toothpaste and a bit of money. Enjolras kept looking at his other paintings in the corner, and asked Grantaire several times whether he wanted to take more along, but Grantaire declined. He didn't want such blatant descriptions of his time in the army near this group who shouldn't and couldn't know about any of that. The first painting was alright, since it was pretty vague where its scene was, but some others were much more specific. In the end he only took one other painting along -it showed a small terrace with plants crawling along the walls of the café and he only chose it because he still wanted to finish it. By the time he and Enjolras went upstairs one last time for a quick check, Grantaire grabbed the note for Claquesous and kept it in his fist. He crumpled it into a ball and when he announced that he had everything he needed and let Enjolras exit, he threw it on the ground and quickly shut the door behind him. Claquesous would find it, no matter how brainless he sometimes seemed. And if he couldn't Babet, whose intelligence was passable, would. He locked the door and turned around to Enjolras. "Let's go."

Enjolras responded: "Yes, we should head back, or they'll think something happened." He and Grantaire made their way downstairs. No curses were thrown at them, and maybe it was because of the quiet that Grantaire ended up in a conversation with Enjolras. 

"Thanks for helping me with my apartment, I really appreciate it." 

"No problem," Enjolras answered friendly, "I was happy to get to thank you." 

Grantaire wasn't sure how to respond to that. He made a tsk-sound and shrugged. "If you're talking about Courfeyrac again, there's really no need to thank me. Everyone would have done that." 

"Do you really think that?" 

Enjolras looked at him, looking slightly baffled and mostly disagreeing. 

"Yeah, that's what you do when you're together." Grantaire answered, but Enjolras' stare ended up making him doubt himself, and his answer came out as a question. "Wouldn't you have jumped in front of him." 

Enjolras shook his head. "That's not the same, Grantaire. I've known Courfeyrac for years, you've met him a week ago. You do realise that, right?" 

 _What the hell is this about?_  Grantaire wondered. "Maybe," he said, "but he was my teammate. We were responsible for each other." He was amazed that Enjolras was so weird about this. That's part of being a team. 

Enjolras didn't answer to that. In fact, Grantaire wondered whether Enjolras was even listening at all: he was looking forward absent-minded, probably thinking about something entirely different. When he kept quiet, Grantaire just muttered an 'okay' and continued to walk down. 

"Did you think I was going to hurt you for forgetting the money when you literally got shot?" Enjolras blurted out. 

Grantaire shrugged, keeping his eyes down. "Sort of," he admitted. "I mean, you are Les Amis de l'ABC. You have a reputation to uphold, and a heist that failed probably damages it." He sighed loudly and reached into his pockets. "And you looked ready to murder me, so yeah," he lamely finished. He stopped himself there. If he didn't look out, he would tell Apollo that he was used to being beaten for mistakes, that he was used to taking bullets for teammates during another attack, another attempt to take back a town that was occupied by their enemies. Grantaire had the tendency to talk too much.

They exited the building, and Enjolras looked ready to respond, but he didn't say anything when he saw the people that were passing by. He simply walked to their car and unlocked it, gesturing at Grantaire to get in. Grantaire carefully opened the door and seated himself. The back of the car was filled with his stuff. He watched Enjolras get behind the steering wheel. Soon enough the car was on the road again, and Enjolras talked to him again.

"You shouldn't feel like we're waiting for you to do something wrong," he told Grantaire. "The heist wasn't flawless; a lot of things went wrong. It's a shame we don't have the money, I'll admit. But none of that is your fault. You were under Courfeyrac's supervision, and he should have handled all of it." He also gestured to Grantaire's shoulder. "That should not have happened if Courfeyrac had done what he was supposed to do. Besides," he added, "we didn't need the money. We still got what we wanted." He looked at Grantaire from the corner of his eye. 

"Publicity," Grantaire guessed. Enjolras nodded and without taking his eyes off the road, turned on the car-radio. "It's all over the news. A broadcast will start in a minute, and chances are that they'll talk about the 'failed' heist on la Société Générale, while making it all the more succesful." He smiled lightly, with triumph and irony. 

And almost as if he had timed it, the radio gave a short beep, and the broadcast began. As the news reporter introduced herself, Grantaire listened quietly. 

"The police are still looking for the people responsable for the attempted heist on one of the banks of the bank-enterprise la Société Générale. Yesterday-night the bank was infiltrated by three to five people, all young men according to witnesses. The police came to the scene after noticing that the cameras at the streets were not showing live footage, but were gassed. The police tried to chase the culprits, they escaped by car. The heist cost the lives of nine people and many more injured. It is believed that the group responsable for the heist is Les Amis de l'ABC, who have already...."  

The news reporter carried on, stating whatever she was reading from auto-cue. Grantaire half-heartedly listened to the rest of the broadcast. The words that had caught his attention were 'the lives of nine people'. A bunch of cops and one staff member of la Société Générale. 

Those were pretty much all his doing. And he could excuse himself for the policemen; after all, those were endangering the others, and he did believe that policemen were generally too violent towards people during arrests. The true guilt started with the night porter. 

Grantaire felt his shoulder with his hand. It still hurt a lot. _It was self defence,_ he weakly argued _, you had to kill him for your own sake, and Courfeyrac's._ His argument fell on deaf ears. He couldn't excuse this. It wasn't like cops, or the people Montparnasse made him shoot down. The night porter was innocent. He was responsible, and it felt horrible. 

"You see?" Enjolras said, "we might not have the money, but that was not the priority. This-" he gestured to the radio-"was our main goal." And as soon as Grantaire heard him say that, something inside him snapped. 

So a bunch of dead people was nothing more than a publicity stunt?

He kept his eyes strictly on the building farther ahead, desperately trying to keep his face straight. On the inside, anger was spreading like a wildfire. 

He was trying to maintain a calm façade, because arguing with Enjolras was not something he felt like doing right now, after all the stress he'd already had during their relatively short time together. Alas, his luck wouldn't have it tonight; he could see Enjolras waiting for a reaction from him. When that didn't come, he asked without any meaning behind it. "Is something bothering you?"

The casual, innocent tone! Grantaire felt more anger come in sparks.  _Does he even realise what he's talking about?_ He bit on his lip and fervently shook his head. "I'm fine." His hands balled into fists. He could even feel it in his own shoulder. 

Enjolras noticed it, too. He had to stop for a traffic light and as soon as he'd come to a halt, he used the opportunity to glance at Grantaire. Grantaire was aware that he was trying to get eye contact, but he stared at a pedestrian walking by and forced himself to follow their movements and not look to the side. 

"Will you look at me?" Enjolras scoffed. "Why are you so dismissive all of a sudden?" His already dominant voice had a demanding edge to it, annoyed at Grantaire. 

Grantaire scoffed back at him. "Do you really not know? Is it that hard?" The pedestrian was leaving his field of vision. With nothing else to look at, he flicked his gaze at Enjolras. Enjolras looked slightly confused for a moment, maybe a second, and then it transformed into annoyance. "Well? What's the matter with you?" 

"Nothing. I'm just a bit amazed that you consider this a success," Grantaire airily responded. "We got nine people killed and didn't even get any profit from it, but at least we got some notoriety. All's well that fucking ends well." 

These were the words that triggered something in Enjolras. "Don't act so hypocrite. You knew there were going to be casualties, it was your part in this for Christ's sake!" 

"Yeah, and I never really agreed to that, did I?" Grantaire sneered. He flopped back into his seat, but kept his eyes on Enjolras, who was also angrily looking at him. "You know, for someone who literally calls himself 'Friend of the people', you're damn uncaring about them, to the point that their deaths are nothing but hype to you!"

He struck a nerve there; Enjolras looked at him with a killer's gaze. "Well, what do you suggest we do! Walk into a bank and fucking ask them to hand their money? Or organise a small speech and gather a crowd to address the issues society is facing, only to leave them exactly in the same state?" He was talking so fast that he had to take a breath before continuing. "People don't care enough unless it affects them personally. You don't get anywhere with passive-aggressive banter. You need to take action!"

"Do you realise what you sound like?" Grantaire shot back. "This is literally how wars starts, you know!" How many times had he heard that already? 

"Don't you dare!" Enjolras nearly yelled back, his face turned into a scowl. "Don't compare-"

"People thinking they can only use violence to push their agenda!" 

The light turned green, and Enjolras stomped on the pedal. The car soared forwards, making Grantaire fly into his seatbelt. The fabric dug into his shoulder, and he let out a hiss from the sudden pain. Instantly, he realised the things he'd said. And his anger was not aimed at Enjolras anymore, but at himself. 

 _Why do you always make it so hard for yourself? You're going to get yourself killed like this!_  

"Shit!" Enjolras yelled, and his voice was suddenly void of any anger. "That wasn't on purpose," he breathed out, "are you alright?" 

The pain in Grantaire's shoulder was already slowly subsiding, but the anger wasn't. Grantaire shot him a death glare and turned his head away. Now he didn't even pretend to inspect the asphalt ahead of them, he just stared forward. Enjolras made a sound somewhere between disappointed and irritated, but Grantaire still didn't say anything. He hated this. He hated Enjolras and his carelessness and his idiotic first-grade philosophy. The way he was friendly to people he cared about and merciless to people he had no connections with. How he was thanking him and helping him and apologising to him, only to yell him down as soon as he gave his opinion. 

Grantaire slumped back into his seat. He didn't say a word anymore.

The stale air that settled between them by then resulted in Grantaire getting annoyed with every move and sound Enjolras made. When Enjolras finally returned at the villa of Les Amis and parked the car, Grantaire could not wait to get out. As soon as he was out, Enjolras approached him without a single sign of friendliness. Grantaire was happy to see this; it was easier to be mad at someone who was also mad at him. 

"I'll help you get your stuff inside," Enjolras offered with about as much enthusiasm as a rock. And that was the last straw for Grantaire. 

"Let's not keep this up for now," he sighed, and he forced himself to look at Enjolras while talking.  _Collect yourself, you're both adults, be civilised._  

"Look," he continued, "it's nice of you, don't get me wrong, but for now I just don't feel up to it." He left out what (or who) he wasn't feeling up to. "So how about we just do whatever we want and move my stuff later?"

The eagerness Enjolras had in his eyes was almost comical, but he managed to keep himself in control and politely answered: "Alright, just tell me when you want to get started." 

"I will," Grantaire promised him. Enjolras nodded, and they walked into the villa together (Grantaire still needed someone to open the door for him). As they were walking down the hallway, Enjolras remained quiet. He looked ahead with a blank expression. The anger was gone, and all that was left was a stone face. Grantaire tried to decipher it, but he couldn't read any emotions on it. Just as he was about to go left to his own room, Enjolras said: "We have a meeting tonight. With Les Amis as a whole. It's at Musaine, do you want me to come and get you when it's time?" 

He didn't sound hostile, just indifferent. 

"You don't need to," Grantaire answered, "I'm going to check on Courfeyrac later, I'll go with him." The truth was he wasn't planning on that at all, but he would rather do anything else if it was without Enjolras. 

Enjolras smiled a tiny smile at him. "Okay. Then I'll see you tonight." 

"See you tonight," Grantaire answered, and they parted ways. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this one came out a week later and I'm really sorry! it took me an entire extra week to finish this. I have no idea why but writing just didn't go smoothly. Since I have a vacation next week i'll probably have plenty of time to get the next chapter done, but this was really late and ill try to not keep y'all waiting again. Anyway i hope you enjoyed this chapter despite the long wait for it (it also wasnt beta-ed but i really did not want to wait any longer so maybe ill re-update it later) and have a great time


	11. New perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God it's been so long! Finally a chapter out again -only to coninue being on hiatus after this one but let's ignore that for a moment-. Sorry to keep yall waiting for this long, it's super cliché but i just had/have a lot of deadlines at the moment and I don't want to do things by halves. To all of you who are still around; you all are lovely to still patiently wait until I crawl back to life after months, so thank you so much! I hope you'll enjoy this chapter!

Courfeyrac burst through the door without as much as knocking and stormed towards Grantaire in a straight a-line. Grantaire looked up and when he saw that it was Courfeyrac, propped himself on his one free elbow and greeted him: "Hey."  

"Hey," Courfeyrac replied a bit shyly, stopping in front of Grantaire's bed and lowering his gaze to Grantaire's wrapped-up shoulder. Grantaire noticed the guilty expression on Courfeyrac's face when he saw the bandage. "Good to see you're awake," he timidly said. He kept his eyes on Grantaire's shoulder. "Does it still hurt?" 

Grantaire felt bad for him. Courfeyrac looked like a kicked puppy, standing beside the bed with his hands awkwardly fiddled together. And as a result, he didn't want to tell Courfeyrac that it still felt pretty painful. Courfeyrac had already collapsed from stress the night before, he probably felt guilty enough. So he shook his head with a simple smile. "No, it's already feeling much better than yesterday. Joly said it had something to do with the blood loss, intensifying the pain or something." 

Courfeyrac visibly relaxed after hearing that. His shoulders unclenched and he put a hand in his side, taking on a more comfortable stature. "Thank God," he sighed out. 

Grantaire shifted to the left of his bed and gestured Courfeyrac to sit down next to him. He was happy to see that Courfeyrac was buying his story. Courfeyrac set himself next to Grantaire, but still balanced on the edge, not taking more space that strictly necessary. Now that he was up close, Grantaire noticed how tired he looked. He carefully pushed himself into a sitting position and made eye contact with Courfeyrac. "And how have you been?"

Courfeyrac shrugged. "I'm fine, I guess." 

"Joly told me you passed out from stress yesterday." 

Courfeyrac nodded slowly. "I did. It's just- when you collapsed-" He didn't finish his sentence, and took a deep breath before averting his gaze to the floor. He fell quiet, and Grantaire was about to ask Courfeyrac whether something was wrong when Courfeyrac looked up at him again and started talking. 

"I'm really sorry, R. About yesterday. There's now way I can make this up to you." Grantaire felt ready to tell him that he didn't need to thank him, but Courfeyrac seemed relieved to get the words out of his system, and Grantaire guessed that he'd been thinking about these words for a long time already. So he let Courfeyrac talk along, quietly listening to him. 

"The way I talked to you and treated you," Courfeyrac continued, "it wasn't right. I was freaking out because everything was going wrong, but that's no excuse. I shouldn't have bossed you around, especially not on the roof with that chemical bomb."

Grantaire could still remember that moment. The sudden panic when two scenarios were too much alike. How he had tried to make a run for it. In his opinion, Courfeyrac had been rightfully angry with him about that, but Courfeyrac didn't agree with him: "We should have told you about that, but it was a last-minute addition and we were afraid you'd reject it because you already hated the tranquilliser on the night porter. So we didn't tell you. In hindsight, I realise that it was unfair to expect you to just do whatever I told you. And I'm so sorry." 

"You already said that," Grantaire joked, hoping to lighten the mood a bit. Courfeyrac shook his head. "I can't say it enough. And after that, I snapped at you. And then I decided for the both of us that we would try to take the money." Grantaire knew that he had not really objected in any way. other than being reluctant. But Courfeyrac had apparently drawn a conclusion from that. He saw Courfeyrac take another deep sigh. 

"And- just, even after all the shit I pulled on you, you got fucking shot because of me," he exasperated. "Because I was too stupid to not have my gun ready for anyone and you had to jump in front of me." He carefully looked at Grantaire's shoulder again, and rubbed his eyes. Grantaire put his hand on Courfeyrac's shoulder in an effort to comfort him. He really didn't know whether he was supposed to accept Courfeyrac's apology or tell him that he didn't mind all of it -which wasn't true, but Grantaire wasn't planning on keeping this up. Courfeyrac removed his hands from his eyes, and looked up at Grantaire. 

"It's okay, Courf. I also didn't expect him," Grantaire reassured him. "I just happened to still be standing." 

Courfeyrac shook his head. "No. I've been an asshole to you yesterday."

Grantaire shook his head in return. "You were stressed and worried about the others. We didn't know what was going on and you just tried to find out." He made a wave with his hand. "It's not important." 

Courfeyrac looked like he was still ready to continue on his rant. Grantaire could understand Courfeyrac's behaviour, but he was ready to forgive him and really didn't want to keep beating a dead horse, so Courfeyrac could say anything else, he said: "Please Courf, I've already been apologised to today. I really don't care, okay? It's fine." He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and shot a sideway glance at Courfeyrac. "Now that you've apologised, I'd like to know whether you only came here for that or if you could maybe stop me from being bored." It came out a bit harsh, he realised, but after the disastrous end of his and Enjolras' trip, he had been a bit more snappy. There was a reason he'd been able to fill God-knows-how-long with nothing but staring at his ceiling and angrily memorising every word that had been said between him and the leader of Les Amis.  

Courfeyrac didn't seem very appalled by his annoyance. He raised his eyebrows at him and explained: "Well, I was sitting around with Ferre, doing nothing much at all, when Enjolras storms in looking ready to blow up all of Paris. He immediately marches to Combeferre, asking if he could 'have a word' with him, and tells me that you are looking for me. When you still weren't there after who knows how long, I decided to try and find you." He rolled his eyes and shot an unimpressed gaze back at Grantaire. "And that's how I got here." 

Grantaire had indeed said that he was going to Courfeyrac, but that really had been more of a white lie to avoid Enjolras. The truth was that Grantaire had planned to be angry until he got tired. Sadly, Courfeyrac had taken initiative, and now he knew that it was his turn to explain some things. Courfeyrac confirmed his suspicion: "So, what happened between you and Enjolras?" 

Grantaire scoffed, half-angry and half-amused. "We got into a fight, again." 

"Explain," Courfeyrac commented, scooting closer to Grantaire.  

"So yeah, things were going okay between us, and then we had a bit of a disagreement about the importance of human life," he said. Courfeyrac was shaking his head and huffing with an annoyed tone. "Honestly, you two haven't had a single normal interaction." Grantaire scoffed, and folded his arms. "Well, he should just think about his goals and his methods for once. Should I just accept everything that he does, without questioning it?" 

"I didn't say that," Courfeyrac answered. "Maybe the two of you should just talk it out some time." And before Grantaire could tell him how he wasn't planning on any such thing at all, Courfeyrac changed the subject: "The two of you. I'm not your life-coach. And while I was curious what got Enjolras this angry, I mostly came to just talk or whatever." He flashed Grantaire a smile. "And because you didn't come to me." 

Grantaire returned the smile. "And what do you suggest we do, as I can only use this one?" He held up his right arm and waved it in front of Courfeyrac's face.

"Whatever you want," Courfeyrac offered. "I mean, boxing is obviously not going to happen for a while, but you could paint something." 

"I'm left-handed," Grantaire answered with a roll of his eyes. This frustrated Courfeyrac even more. He threw his hands up in the air: "Well, why do you shoot with your dominant hand? Who even does that anymore?"

"Shut up," Grantaire muttered. He had considered switching to his right hand for shooting at a time, but eventually, it only seemed like a lot of work for a skill he barely needed, as he needed both hands for most sniper rifles. So he'd let it go, and this was the first time he'd ever had problems with it. "It works for me. I'm professional enough to not injure myself during shooting. I can't really do much about getting hit." 

Courfeyrac chuckled at him. "Well, what else would you wanna do?"

Grantaire shrugged. Just like the first time he'd met Courfeyrac, he crossed off his list of hobbies in his head:  _painting, can't paint. Boxing, can't box. Playing the piano. I suck at it_. Another few hours of lying on his bed sounded stellar.  

"I guess I'd like he drink," he only half-jokingly offered. In response, Courfeyrac shoved him, and he huffed in mock-offence. "What, that's just the truth, okay? I haven't had anything in two days!" It had come as no surprise to him that being drunk during a heist was forbidden at Les Amis de l'ABC. Yet another stark difference with the Patron-Minette. And he was still getting used to having no alcohol in his system. Alcohol had been his coping mechanism for the past few months, it wasn't easy to go cold turkey. 

"As much as I understand, R, with all due respect, it's afternoon."  

"I regret saving your life." 

"Too bad," Courfeyrac replied. He stood up from the bed and extended an arm to Grantaire. "Let's just get some of your stuff out of the car." While Grantaire accepted his hand, he went on: "Get some fresh air, maybe some inspiration, avoid Joly's mania over your injuries." 

Grantaire rolled his eyes as Courfeyrac pulled him to his feet. "We don't have to. Enjolras has offered to help me with it." At that, Courfeyrac grinned and airily asked: Would you rather have Enjolras help you? For some reason, I find that hard to believe." 

 _That's true_ , Grantaire thought to himself. Courfeyrac was probably only trying to be kind. So he looked up, and simply said: "You're right about that." 

"Knew it," Courfeyrac stated. He walked to the door and opened it. Grantaire quickly followed him, and it wasn't long before they were walking down the corridor together again. By now, Grantaire was starting to get familiar with the lay-out of the villa. He estimated it wouldn't take much longer, maybe a week or so, before he could easily sneak out without getting lost. Courfeyrac was walking next to him, and without looking sideways to Grantaire he asked Grantaire: "By the way, I noticed you still don't have a message to send every twenty-four hours." 

Oh Yeah. That thing he was supposed to have which he'd been informed about a week ago. Grantaire scratched the back of his neck. "I kinda forgot about that," he told Courfeyrac. 

"I get it," Courfeyrac reassured him. "It's been a hectic week. Just make sure to decide one soon." 

"Sure," Grantaire answered. He would think about that later. What mattered was the possible meaning behind Courfeyrac's statement. "Why? Are you planning on sending me on jobs?" He tried to appear casual, but on the inside he was starting to fire up. He longed for the freedom to finally walk around on his own. 

Courfeyrac shot him a smile, and answered: "Not yet, but we can't keep you locked up forever." He stuck his hands in his pockets and continued walking, not adding anything to his statement. 

Grantaire ignored the feeling that it sounded very dismissive, that Courfeyrac said it as if he didn't want to allow Grantaire out. He immediately started theorising; was Courfeyrac suspecting something? But he forced himself to push the thoughts away. 

When they neared a door, he recognised it as the door leading to the car park. He tried the doorknob and wasn't surprised to find it still open. Because his mind most definitely had not been on locking the door when he'd walked through it. Rather, he'd been thinking about a certain blonde leader of Les Amis. And he was pretty sure said person was also not really thinking about the door when they were walking through it in dead silence. The car was still there, and he and Courfeyrac walked up to it.

"So," Courfeyrac said, "what exactly drove you and Enjolras to have an ethical discussion?" He unlocked the car and left Grantaire a few seconds to think about his answer. 

"I thought you told me to talk that out with him. Something about you not being my life-coach," he deadpanned. To put more force behind his statement, he added: "Go watch teenage dramas if you want to revel in shitty interactions." 

Courfeyrac burst into laughter and threw the car door open. "Well, at least you're admitting that you and Enjolras are behaving like children." And with a shake of his head, in that way that indicated that he was dismissive, he pulled out a box of paint and brushes.

"Hey, I'm twenty-"

"Besides," he continued, "I'm not planning on helping you two with it. I just want to know the details, because, Grantaire, you are single-handedly breaking Enjolras down." 

Grantaire had planned on elaborating on him not being a child, but the new topic seemed even more interesting. "Really?" he asked, bewildered. That had not been what it seemed like when he and Apollo were arguing: in fact, Enjolras had seemed so sure of himself that Grantaire had almost felt inclined to believe what he was saying, maybe even would've agreed if he hadn't been shown the long-term effects of radicalism.

Courfeyrac fumbled a bit with the box in his hands. He kept his eyes on it as he spoke; Grantaire had the feeling he was doing it on purpose. 

"Enjolras doesn't usually face a lot of criticism, at least not from us. And then there's you," Courfeyrac said, making a hand gesture. "and I swear it's eating him alive or something." 

There was no tone in Courfeyrac's voice that betrayed whether he was choosing Grantaire's side or Enjolras'. And Grantaire was smart enough to carefully construct his answer. It was difficult, finding out just exactly what Courfeyrac was thinking. Especially now, after having seen him act during the heist, Grantaire was sure that Courfeyrac did not carelessly throw his thoughts around. In the one week he'd known Les Amis and its members, he was still finding out new things about the members every day, but he was starting to categorise them. And the more he saw of Courfeyrac, the more he started to get uncertain about him. He wondered whether he should defend himself, make a joke of it or apologise. But he knew that he did not have much more than a couple of seconds, so he quickly chose his default answer to most people who confronted him (that being Montparnasse). Defend.

"It's not my fault," he answered. He watched Courfeyrac, but there was hardly any reaction, so he continued: "He should think about his actions and the impact they have. You can't set up a heist that takes nine lives and just claim it as a victory." He started increasing the volume in his voice. Courfeyrac stared back at him, the box was now hanging limply in his hands. 

"So that's what you got in a fight about," he said. The surprise in his voice was audible, and Grantaire immediately asked himself what else Courfeyrac was thinking about.

"Yeah, didn't he tell you that?" 

"Nope," Courfeyrac sighed, "he just marched in, asked me if he could borrow Combeferre for a moment, and told me that you were looking for me." 

It sounded very annoyed, as if this wasn't the first time it happened.  _Maybe it does happen more often._ Grantaire could see Enjolras and Combeferre discussing with each other in secret for some reason. He thought back about the conversation he'd accidentally picked up between the three of them; Courfeyrac's insistence on his own inferiority, because he only did the bombs, while Combeferre was their info-network and Enjolras the leader. 

"Alright, I'll just do a briefing," he told Courfeyrac, forcing himself to not linger on the idea for too long. Courfeyrac, looking interested, set the box down. Grantaire nervously fumbled with the sling around his shoulder, trying to pick a good starting point. 

"So, we went to my apartment, and in the car I tried to apologise for fucking up the heist and making fun of him with the money-" 

"Oh yeah," Courfeyrac snickered, "that was gold. At the time I was thinking 'what the fuck is he doing?', but now that I think back on it, I can only say that it was genius." He grinned, and Grantaire grinned back. "Why, thank you," he laughed, "but pay attention. I'm only telling once." 

"Alright, alright," Courfeyrac exclaimed, raising his hands, "whatever." But he still smiled. 

"Good, but he tells me that it wasn't my fault, and that I wasn't responsible and we genuinely had a good talk." 

"About what?" 

Grantaire sighed exasperatedly. It almost felt like he'd been on his first date and he was undergoing the interrogation of a mother. "About my shitty apartment," he answered, and continued to distract himself from the ideas that was swirling around in his head. "And then we get in and we...talk a bit more about nothing. And suddenly, he thanks me. For saving you." He hoped that the last part was enough to distract Courfeyrac from his attempt to avoid the moment where he tried to stab Enjolras. Luckily, Courfeyrac was visibly confused by the sentence. "Huh?" he asked,shaking his head. "He was thanking you for saving me?"

"Yeah?" Grantaire hesitantly responded, not sure what was so strange about that. 

"And that was all?" Courfeyrac asked him, looking somewhat indignant. He had his arms crossed by now. 

"No," Grantaire answered, and he collected his thoughts again. It was hard to remember it, even though it'd happened hours ago. Courfeyrac's shift in mood had left him a bit distracted. "He also apologised to me. About how he's treated me and that stuff with the heist." 

Courfeyrac hummed, seemingly content with what Grantaire had said. He untangled his hands, letting them dangle by his side, but one hand went up to rest on his hip. "And what did you think about it?" he asked.

Grantaire saw the expectation in Courfeyrac's face, the kind that showed that he didn't know what to expect, what would come out of Grantaire. He stuck his hand in his pocket and tried to remember what he'd said to Enjolras about the subject. And he felt a bit guilty about it when he discovered that he'd already forgotten, because it had clearly meant something to Enjolras. Maybe he was a bit too uncaring. 

 _He's asking for your thoughts, not your initial reaction._ "Well, you know, I honestly didn't mind that much," he responded with a shrug. He saw Courfeyrac's mouth open already, to ask for clarification of some sorts, so he picked up on where he'd ended: "Me getting shot was not something he could account for, and it wasn't part of the plan, or so I hope at least."

"So no hard feelings about that anymore?" 

In response, Grantaire just shrugged for the second time. Courfeyrac chuckled. "Good," he commented. "Hey, I actually don't feel like dragging your stuff around at all, so why don't we just head over to Musain already? We have to go there anyway." 

Grantaire couldn't care much about where they were going, but he wondered why they 'had to' go to Musain. So he asked: "Why?" 

"For the meeting," Courfeyrac responded, "Enjolras told you about that, right?" 

"I think so," Grantaire mumbled.Then, something came to his mind: "By the way, why do you 'have to' go to Musain for that meeting?" In the week leading up to the heist, discussions had been at the villa for as far as Grantaire knew. He was trying to find a pattern for it, just in case if it was worth anything to Montparnasse. He'd already decided on stretching his job for as long as possible, but he knew that Montparnasse would suspect something if he wasn't careful with his slacking-off. If he could point to Musain as a frequent meeting point, he would give Montparnasse valuable information, without the advantage of easily intervening. Musain wasn't a centre-ville café, but still much too crowded to easily break in. Too risky for Montparnasse.

But then, on the other hand, Grantaire thought, would Montparnasse really be afraid of some chaos? As long as he just sat behind his little desk and sent someone else to Musain, he wouldn't have a lot of problems. And a bit of extreme attention hadn't scared him off back in Syria, had it?

 _No, it hadn't,_ Grantaire remembered that. He remembered the big titles on the news, on the internet. Explosion in Deir ez-Zor. So many victims. Still looking for survivors. Perpretrator unknown. Investigation still going. The hype for it quickly died out, and the investigation stopped soon as the war went on elsewhere, but not soon enough to not be all over the internet for a couple of days. Grantaire would never forget the paranoia of back then. Whenever he saw articles about the investigation, fearing that he would be found. Montparnasse reassurances were not enough; it was at that moment that Grantaire had learned just cheap Montparnasse's talking was. 

"Hey, you still there?" Courfeyrac's voice came through, and Grantaire snapped back into the present time. He quickly checked Courfeyrac's expression: slightly worried, and with an unsure smile. He forced himself to take a deep breath. "Sorry, what were you saying?" 

Courfeyrac made a tsk-sound and clicked his tongue. "I was answering your question, idiot," he teased. He rolled his eyes, and added: "What was going on? You seemed a bit absent." 

 _Oh shit what am I gonna say this time?_ That stupid thing he did when he fell into thinking had to stop. He improvised and gestured to his head: "Still having a headache." It briefly crossed his mind that it was not very believable to still have a headache after that long, but Courfeyrac didn't seem to have a problem with it, because he nodded and huffed: "I also don't really feel that good yet. Still shaken up and all." 

"I'm sorry," Grantaire said, though he wasn't sure what he was apologising for. Courfeyrac just scoffed friendly: "Not your fault, remember?" he nudged Grantaire and picked up where he left: "But to answer your question again; we mostly hold our meetings there to see Musichetta and help her out a bit, we have a better parking lot there, from there you can easily get to the centre without having to pass a bunch of dangerous streets. But it's mostly just for Musichetta and something of a tradition."

"Isn't it a bit dangerous, though? What if there's other customers?" 

In response, Courfeyrac explained: "Chetta has a backroom for us in case of actual meetings. And our faces aren't known to the public, so as long as we don't discuss anything in her main part of the café we're fine." And as he said that, he threw the back door of the car shut and locked it. He looked over at Grantaire: "Let's walk. We still have plenty of time." 

Grantaire shrugged. "Alright. If you say so." 

\---------

It wasn't long before they were out on the streets. Grantaire was wearing finally wearing his own jacket again, with only his right arm through the sleeve, and on the left he'd draped the jacket over his shoulder as best as he could. When Courfeyrac had noticed that he couldn't wear a jacket properly, he'd offered to go by car nevertheless, but Grantaire had declined; it felt good to be out on the streets again. To be able to escape the claustrophobic feeling he got from spending nearly all his time indoors. To just be able to relax and not be afraid of people all around him. Just Courfeyrac, who generally didn't pry much.

Beside him, Courfeyrac was casually strolling along, hand in his pocket. He was sending a text message in the group; Grantaire read along. 

_R and i going to musain- xxx urbestmanxoxo~~_

That was Courfeyrac's standard message, Grantaire had learned. He was thinking about using something similar as his own. He told himself to think about it as soon as the meeting was over, or at least, if he had the chance to. "So," Courfeyrac said, tucking away his phone again, "can I just ask you some stuff about you and Enjolras?" 

Annoyed, Grantaire stretched a long sigh and looked at Courfeyrac: "Why? What's it to you? Enjolras and I had a fight, so what?"

"Well, sorry," Courfeyrac sarcastically teased, "didn't know I struck a nerve there." He rolled his eyes and shook his head, as a disapproving parent. "But what the hell is going on between the two of you?" 

"What do you mean by that," Grantaire asked irritatedly.

"You constantly fight, and then he's suddenly super worried about you, things are going okay for a morning or so, he even apologises to you about the night porter and you accept it and suddenly, bam, you're fighting again," Courfeyrac exasperatedly said. "I mean, I know Enjolras can have a temper but I'm starting to think you're even worse!" 

"What the fuck, Courf!" Grantaire asked, "I'm allowed to have a different opinion from him. How's it my fault?" 

In response, Courfeyrac answered: "It's both your fault. You need to talk to each other. And you-" at this he pointed at Grantaire- "need to come to terms with him. He's trying to compromise, you can't expect him to be the only one."

Grantaire, fuelled to have a row by now, couldn't understand what Courfeyrac was saying. He scoffed and tried to hide his ignorance of whatever Courfeyrac meant by Enjolras making compromises, because he truly had no idea what Courfeyrac meant. "Compromises? How is he trying to compromise?" he asked, bewildered. "All he does is fight with me and tell me shit for disagreeing with him and he doesn't care at all about what I have to say. I might be new here but don't I have even the slightest say in whatever decision is made?" 

"Well, he said sorry, didn't he?" Courfeyrac pointed out. "And all that night porter-business, that was a compromise, wasn't it? Even though it didn't work, he's not just making-"

"Wait, what?" Grantaire had lost the point. Night porter-business? "What does the night porter have to do with anything? I'm not following, Courf." He threw his hands up in the air to emphasise that he didn't get what Courfeyrac was saying. And apparently, that was not what Courfeyrac had expected, because he shut his mouth immediately and incredulously stared at Grantaire, even stopping in his tracks. 

"What do you mean?" he asked, and he sounded as if he was at a loss as much as Grantaire. Grantaire saw the hesitant confusion in his eyes, and he wondered whether he looked at Courfeyrac like that as well. It made him feel stupid.

He had his right hand in the pocket of his jeans, and was fumbling the fabric between his fingers. "Well, the night porter," he repeated. He looked at a cigarette bud that lay in front of his feet. "How is that a compromise?" For as far as Grantaire knew, all that had happened was that the night porter had somehow woken up after being tranquillised and gassed and had shot him. 

Courfeyrac didn't say anything for a few seconds. Grantaire squished the burned-out cigarette bud beneath his shoe, avoiding looking up. 

"R, I thought you said he apologised. And you agreed that it wasn't his fault, right?" 

Grantaire looked up to see Courfeyrac looking confused. 

And that was when it made sense to him.

"Courf, I think we're not talking about the same thing."

When he said that, Courfeyrac took a moment to understand what was being said. Grantaire could see it dawn on him. And then, Courfeyrac drew in a long, long breath. 

"He didn't tell you about what happened with the night porter." 

He didn't phrase it as a question, but a statement, and Grantaire could practically hear the annoyance in Courfeyrac's voice. He thought back about the words he'd exchanged with Enjolras, and came to the conclusion that the words 'night porter' hadn't fallen . So, unsure about the meaning behind this, he answered: "No?"

Courfeyrac clicked his tongue and scoffed; "Fuck, I told him to talk about that! As well as the other stuff," and he wanted to continue, but his first sentence already struck a nerve in Grantaire. So he held his finger up, signing Courfeyrac to shut up: "Wait a minute, _you_ told him to talk to me? Did you seriously  _instruct_ him to apologise to me?" He couldn't even come up with that himself? 

Courfeyrac immediately shook his head and started sputtering: "Nonono, it's not like that!" Grantaire only raised one of his eyebrows at him, and Courfeyrac threw his hands up in the air once again. "I mean, he came to me and told me he wanted to apologise and asked me to help him, how do you say it, phrase it?" He asked it, like Grantaire knew the answer to it, but before Grantaire could even say a word, he went on in his story: "So I helped him out a bit, but it was his idea," he confidently assured Grantaire. "But he didn't say anything about the night porter?" 

"No, what about him?" 

He could see Courfeyrac's face getting jarred, uncomfortable. And he also detected a hint of anger on his face and in his movements when he threaded a hand through his hair in the same way Grantaire often found himself doing. Eventually, Courfeyrac said: 

"Enjolras is responsible for the night porter waking up." 

_Wait, what?_

  
"Huh?" That was all Grantaire could think to say. 

He stood there, tongue-tied. For some reason, he could not think of any answer at all. And it was because of his own inability to talk that he attempted to hint Courfeyrac with his eyes to elaborate on it. Courfeyrac didn't seem to get it, though, and it was up to Grantaire to speak. It was impossible to formulate the many thoughts and even more questions queuing up in his head at the speed of light, so he only forced out one single word: "Enjolras?" 

Funny, he reflected, how that was the only word he could think of. How, despite the extremely mixed feelings about the person behind it, he still immediately sprang to Grantaire's mind, before all other words. What kind of twist had happened now concerning Apollo? Today had been one long day of his opinion on Enjolras changing back and forth, and this new detail made him doubt his thoughts again. 

"Yeah, and I told him to tell you about it," Courfeyrac answered, not really reacting to Grantaire, but seemingly formulating his own thoughts. "Now it's up to me again." 

"But-Courf, what exactly, precisely do you mean? Just be clear, okay? I'm really in the dark here and I just want to know." Grantaire said the words a bit slower, to put emphasis on everything he said. Courfeyrac had to understand him clearly. Courfeyrac nodded at him, "Yeah, I guess I will tell you, then."

"So, after you told Enjolras about the uncertainty regarding the dosis of tranquilliser to use on the night porter, and you left, he came to me and asked me whether it was true," Courfeyrac started. He had his phone in his hand and was nervously tilting it. "It was true, of course, so I told him. And all of a sudden he gets really uncertain about it and says we shouldn't use a tranquilliser on him." 

Grantaire knew that Courfeyrac was looking at him, ready to register every reaction he'd express, so he kept his own face carefully neutral. In his mind, though, his thinking was already set in motion; he tried to decide what exactly this meant. Enjolras altered the plan as a result of Grantaire's comment. He almost felt flattered. 

"So he didn't use the tranquilliser?" 

Courfeyrac shook his head again. 

"No, he still used it, but he decided that we would use a much smaller dosis," he answered, "and Combeferre tried to talk him out of it, but he insisted." When he heard it, Grantaire wondered whether Enjolras had truly not known about that. He knew that Enjolras might not have been interested in chemistry, but it seemed strange to him that Enjolras could not have drawn that conclusion. 

"And after Enjolras basically took this decision all on his own, we eventually just kind of agreed." Courfeyrac was still explaining what had happened, but he started talking in a more cautious manner, as if he was telling something secret. He looked at Grantaire without so much as blinking. "But then, a couple of days later, Ferre and I made the plan to plant a gas bomb in the reception, just for emergency." Courfeyrac told him, and Grantaire really felt like Courfeyrac was avoiding eye contact on purpose. Small wonder.

Courfeyrac wasn't talking on, and Grantaire assumed it was up to him to react. It was a sensitive subject, maybe Courfeyrac just needed some response to make sure they could move on and continue about Enjolras. So he hunched his shoulders and said: "And then?"

Courfeyrac instantly filled in the gap: "He asked whether it was the same with the gas as with the tranquilliser." 

"And what did you say?"

Courfeyrac shrugged. "I told him that it was basically harmless." 

Grantaire got a suspicious feeling. "And was it harmless?" he asked precariously. At that, Courfeyrac's eyes snapped up at him, with a gaze of guilt in them: "Alright, it wasn't entirely harmless, I'll admit it!" Before Grantaire could say anything else, Courfeyrac continued: "But it's not lethal or does permanent damage or something." 

Grantaire had the strange feeling that Courfeyrac wasn't telling the truth. He wished he'd been able to find out what gas was used. He remembered how he had to catch Courfeyrac after he'd inhaled some of it. It had stung and he'd lost control over his muscles or consciousness. The point was that it could not be as innocent as Courfeyrac made it sound. And he made his opinion clear by simply staying quiet. 

"Don't give me that look!" Courfeyrac scoffed with a frustrated voice. "I know it's wrong and I'm sorry, okay? I am really sorry, but it had to be strong enough to protect Ferre and Enj and Joly. And if Enjolras was going to freak out over every little thing we wouldn't get anywhere! That gas not entirely fine, but it wasn't anything serious and I really couldn't find a better alternative!" He ended with something close to a yell, filled with frustration, and although Grantaire wasn't sure how okay he was with this, it had happened and he had no choice in the matter anyway, and since he still wanted to hear the full story about Enjolras, so he just nodded and said: "Okay, whatever, you know? It's fine, I only wanna- what did he say afterwards?" 

Courfeyrac didn't look too happy with Grantaire's -clearly not very indifferent- indifference, but continued anyway. "After a bit of convincing, I got him to stop nagging me about it, and then you can basically skip forward to the heist. I mean, he did ask me the same question a few more times, but I always answered the same, so it's nothing new." 

Grantaire nodded.

"And everything was going alright for a while. But as soon as they'd tranquillised the guard, Joly felt the need to point out that a combination of tranquilliser and gas might have more serious health consequences," Courfeyrac sighed. 

"Why do you say that as if it's no big deal?" Grantaire questioned him. In return, Courfeyrac looked at him. For one moment, he looked legitimately angry, but it disappeared and traded place with a look of fatigue. Courfeyrac curled his lips and said: "I know it sounds harsh. I'm not like, that I think Joly should've shut up because it's no big deal, as you say. I don't want to cause harm when it's not necessary, and Joly is a would-be doctor, so of course he cares. But I am angry because his comment was the whole reason you got shot and Combeferre almost got caught by the police and whatnot." 

Grantaire could feel the beginnings of some sort of climax to this story build up. Courfeyrac was close to getting to the point. How Enjolras was responsible for waking up the night porter. So, he shoved his one hand deep inside his pocket and looked at the cigarette bun he'd squished under his boot. 

"So what happened?"

Courfeyrac said: "Enjolras got fucking pissed, that's what happened." 

"He told Joly that he had to be kept away from the gas, if that would be safer for him. Combeferre, of course"- while he said this, Courfeyrac rolled his eyes- "did not agree, but apparently Enjolras convinced him or something like that, because in the end they moved the night porter into another room, because according to Joly the gas wouldn't settle that easily, since it's pretty dense." He was still fumbling with his phone, but all the while he looked at Grantaire. Grantaire could see it from the corner of his eye. 

One thing was clear: he had a lot of catching up to do, but his was still far too confused right now: he'd always depicted Enjolras as someone heartless. His way was pragmatic; the plan only had to succeed, and the way to get there wasn't important. Enjolras wanted to improve conditions for the people as a whole, but didn't care much for individuals. He didn't care about one single night porter if the end result would be better in the long run. That was why he was so godlike; he was cruel when he wanted something. 

But now, all of a sudden, his view of Apollo was challenged; not only had he shown care for the health of that night porter he'd first not even given a second thought, but he'd also done that after Grantaire had said something about it. Did that mean that he'd actually listened to Grantaire? Even though he'd never shown Grantaire's ideas anything else than disinterest or even hostility? 

"Well, because he wasn't gassed, and only mildly tranquillised, he woke up in that room, remembered what happened and managed to get upstairs to us." Courfeyrac sounded dead serious. "And I guess he must've found out about the gas, 'cause he made it through and ended up right behind us, with a fucking gun." And his voice contorted into a bitter tone again. "All of that for one damn night porter. And that one night porter only to please you. Don't you get it, R? Enj did all of that because you wanted it." 

Suddenly, the pieces fell into place. Grantaire understood Courfeyrac's words from before; Enjolras had decided to not kill the night porter. Maybe for his own other reasons partially, but the main reason he'd done it was for him. He had said something about it, and Enjolras had listened to him and altered the plan for him, even though he knew it would potentially cause trouble. This was Enjolras' compromise for him. 

But why? Why all of a sudden?

"Why didn't he tell me that?" he asked Courfeyrac. He shoved the ashes of the burnt cigarette bud into the pavement. 

"Because he doesn't know what to say, I think." 

"I thought Enjolras always had words ready, for any situation." 

Courfeyrac didn't respond to him. He just shrugged and said: "I don't know." He stepped up to Grantaire and hooked his own arm into his. He flashed Grantaire somewhat of an apologetic smile. "You know what? Let's just go to Musain. I'm freezing out here. And after the meeting, you can ask him all about it, okay?" 

Grantaire just nodded, and he started walking with Courfeyrac.  _He's right,_ he thought. He would have to confront Enjolras about this. To ask him why he hadn't told Grantaire earlier and why he'd listened to Grantaire all of a sudden. But these were just simple questions. The real hard ones - _Did you do it for me? Do you care about my opinions? Do you care about me?_ -, the ones that were all over his thoughts, were the ones he could not ask. The most important one being:

_How can I kill you when you're acting like this?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one wasn't beta-ed again (my beta reader is really busy too), so if you have any commentary or points, please leave a comment (or you can tell me on tumblr my username is osuwariii) because I really like it when people check my work before posting. And as the summary says from now until about Christmas this work is on hiatus so I can edit some stuff and not rush with the chapters
> 
> See you soon xx


	12. A storm is coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah. Hello. If there's anyone still here, thanks for the waiting.

Grantaire couldn't really tell how much time he and Courfeyrac had spent in Musain before Courfeyrac finally gave in and got the two of them some wine after an infinity of juices and alcohol-free drinks. By now, they'd hung their coats over the chairs and were at the backroom of the Musain. It was small and only had a couple of windows, but that gave it old-fashioned charm rather than making it feel cramped. For the time they'd been there Courfeyrac had been kind enough not to talk about Enjolras. Instead, the topics came and went about nothing in particular. Grantaire found it much harder to stop thinking about Enjolras and that whole mess than it was to avoid talking about it, but he tried. 

He asked Courfeyrac about his hobbies and future plans, learned that Courfeyrac had studied business administration for a while before dropping out and had briefly tried chemistry before giving that up as well. Grantaire had to admit that it was nice to get to know Courfeyrac better like this, since he hadn't really bothered all too much before. It was also nice for a change to have a simple conversation about nothing at all. He even explained to Courfeyrac how it had been his dream to study art. All in all, time passed fairly quickly and he mostly managed to get himself comfortable, so much that when they heard the door in front getting unlocked he realised that that had to be Musichetta. Which meant that they'd been sitting there for hours. 

He glanced over his shoulder and murmured: "Can we even be here?" While he said it, he took a big sip of his wine. Courfeyrac also looked at the door, then at Grantaire, and gave him a relaxed smile. "Sure, Chetta doesn't mind," he assured Grantaire, "as long as we keep it clean." He gestured around himself.

 _Well, I'll trust him on this_ , Grantaire decided. He slumped back in his chair and looked back at Courfeyrac. "If you say so."

"Trust me, it's fine."

The door swung open. Grantaire turned around in his chair and there was Musichetta standing in the doorway. She was soaked and Grantaire saw her looking at the bottle of wine on the table. Courfeyrac noticed too, apparently, because he lifted his glass at her as a salute and said: "Evening, good to see you!"

Musichetta rolled her eyes, walked over to the table and picked up the bottle. She warned: "these drinks are not on the house, Courf!" She took a swig and wiped her mouth with her sleeve. "Fuck, it's raining like the plague out there," she commented while she set the wine on the table again. As she tied her wet hair into a bun, she looked down at Grantaire and greeted him: "Good to see you here again, Grantaire." 

Grantaire cast her a smile in sympathy. He was happy he and Courfeyrac had gone to Musain earlier, because the way he was wearing his jacket would've soaked him to the bone. He wanted to say something back to Musichetta, but before he could Courfeyrac sputtered at Musichetta: "Wait a minute, Chetta, we only had one drink each." He pointed at the bottle: "Look at it, it's nearly full!"

Musichetta made a tsk-sound in response and answered: "Maybe I'll just charge you for all the others times you stole my wine." She cast him an innocent smile and added: "Besides, Joly texted me that our dear R here isn't allowed to drink tonight and he's already started before I arrived at all." She shook her head dismissively and turned around to the door. Courfeyrac scoffed in mock-offence and called out to her: "And I'm guessing you want me to pay for R's drink as well?"

"Maybe," Musichetta called back at him, "since you're responsible for him right now." 

Courfeyrac dramatically slumped in his seat and exclaimed: "Look at that, I'm getting poorer by the day." He glared at Grantaire and raised his nearly empty glass: "Here's to you!" he said and then downed the glass. Grantaire rolled his eyes, grinning, and took a sip as well. In the background, he could hear Musichetta's laughter fade away. And Courfeyrac poured himself another glass.

It wasn't long before Musain officially opened and customers started wandering in, looking for a good evening and something to drink. According to Courfeyrac, that meant that the others would be coming sooner or later. "You can say for sure that Enjolras and Combeferre will be here first," he explained, "then Marius with Cosette and maybe Eponine, Joly will be exactly on time because he's that kind of guy, Feuilly will follow, then Jehan, both fifteen minutes late at most." Grantaire amusedly listened and thought to himself about how Courfeyrac was probably always later than either Feuilly or Jehan, but threw shade at them now that he was early for once. 

"Bahorel is usually pretty late, but Bossuet is the one who's never on time," he chuckled, "No matter how early he leaves, there's always something to go wrong and delay him for an hour. He attracts bad luck like moths to a flame." His statement made him chuckle and Grantaire could laugh about it, too, because in the week he'd known Bossuet he had seen enough to know that this was true. 

About the others, though he wasn't as sure, and he decided that it was worth telling Courfeyrac of his doubts: "I'll believe you on the Enjolras and Combeferre part, but I refuse to believe that Joly wouldn't arrive long before time." He wiggled his eyebrows and shook his head. 

Courfeyrac took the challenge with a grin and answered: "What, you wanna bet on it? You really think you can beat me at this?" 

Since admitting defeat was no option, Grantaire took his chances. "Yeah, I wanna bet on it, as you say it" he answered, mimicking Courfeyrac's voice. Courfeyrac laughed at his imitation and mockingly smiled: "Well, what are we betting on?" 

Before Grantaire could suggest anything, Courfeyrac already said: "Oh, I know. The loser pays the drinks for tonight." He smiled at Grantaire. "And believe me, I'll make good use of that."

"Sure you will," Grantaire replied, "but don't think I'll let doctor's advice stop me if I win. I accept." And he stuck his hand out to Courfeyrac, who immediately took it and shook it enthusiastically. "Oh, I'll keep you to your word on this one," he warned with a daring grin. Grantaire laughed back at him: "Well, except if it escalates and you end up forgetting about our deal by tomorrow morning."

Courfeyrac already opened his mouth to say something back, but he didn't get the chance because another voice started talking: "Well, what am I hearing about a deal, Courf?"

Grantaire didn't even have to turn around to know who it was. Instead, he watched Courfeyrac's reaction, the way his eyes seemed to light up at seeing Combeferre. He already started getting out of his chair when Grantaire remembered something: Courfeyrac had said that Combeferre would come along with someone else. He realised what that meant and looked over his shoulder.

There, next to Combeferre, stood Enjolras, with his divine posture and red coat. He first glanced at the glass in front of Grantaire, then at Grantaire himself, and Grantaire wasn't sure whether the look he was receiving was disdainful, sceptical or neutral because Enjolras seemed to frown naturally, but he felt a nasty inferiority when looking up at Apollo like that. To save himself a dead-end stare, he politely smiled at Enjolras and then hastily focussed on the duo next to him.

Courferyac had already walked over to Combeferre and waved his glass around while he swung his other arm over Combeferre's shoulders. "I'm afraid, for both of you"-while he said this, he also nodded at Enjolras- "that this goes between me and R," and he winked at Grantaire. As if they had to hide Grantaire planning to drink from Enjolras and Combeferre with two glasses of wine standing so casually on their table.

Combeferre quirked an eyebrow at Grantaire, but Grantaire only replied with a smirk. He sighed: "Courf, you should stop making drunk bets. It eats your cash away."

"Oh come on, Ferre," Courfeyrac laughed in reply, "I'm not drunk yet! I know what I'm doing." And the disbelief written all over Combeferre's face as he answered with nothing more than 'Aha' made it incredibly hard for Grantaire to hold in his laughter. The Sahara did not beat Combeferre in terms of dryness. When Combeferre saw Grantaire's reaction, he explained: "It's just that Courfeyrac really makes stupid bets he can't win."

"Plus the kinds of bets he makes," Enjolras supplied, "like that one time you told Marius that Canadians couldn't understand French when he used southern dialect and you nearly got him in a barfight with Canadians."

Courfeyrac sputtered in defiance: "I did not think I could convince him of that, even when he was drunk. Not my fault he's such an idiot." As he brought the glass to his lips, he asked: "Speaking of, did you guys hear anything of Marius? I need to ask him something about stock."

Enjolras shrugged. "He's picking up Cosette and Eponine from the police station," he told Grantaire and Courfeyrac.

That sparked Courfeyrac's interest. He looked Enjolras in the eyes and asked: "What's Cosette doing there?"

"Didn't you read Eponine's text?" 

"No," Courfeyrac seemed confused. He turned to Grantaire. "Did you read anything?"

Grantaire shook his head. "What did she say?"

Enjolras sternly looked at Courfeyrac: "Cosette was questioned for hours about the heist because she left a vehicle which was used to flee from the crime scene." He crossed his arms and said: "You should have left her out of it, Courf. Marius was fucking pissed at you when he heard you'd called her." 

"Well, she's released, right?" Courfeyrac casually stated. "Cosette's a smart girl, I'm sure she was fine, especially with the help of Eponine." He removed his arm from Combeferre's shoulder and crossed his arms in the same way Enjolras did.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Of course she got out, but if they'd linked her to us, do you even know what that would mean for her, or her father's company?" Grantaire watched Courfeyrac and saw guilt on his face, the way his face contorted from goofy to sorry. "Well, I'm glad she's safe," he mumbled, even setting the glass down. "I'll apologise to her tonight."

Enjolras looked like he was ready to say something as well, but Combeferre seemingly didn't want Enjolras to elaborate on it, because he quickly said: "I'm happy she's safe, too. Well, we're going over the topics for tonight, right?" He shared a look with Enjolras and Enjolras, after a moment or two, nodded at him.

Grantaire understood that this was not for him. He expected Courfeyrac to stand up as well. However, against his expectations, Courfeyrac nodded and walked back to his chair. "I'll be catching up with you in a minute, wouldn't want to leave Grantaire on his own, right?" He smiled at Grantaire, and Grantaire rolled his eyes. 

Enjolras said: "Well, we're just up in first bedroom, as usual." 

"Alright," Courfeyrac calmly answered, and as he said it he tipped his glass back and drained the last contents. Combeferre and Enjolras exchanged a glance at that, but continued to walk away out the door and shut it behind them. Grantaire could just see the café getting filled with people. 

Courfeyrac's second glass was now empty, and he stood up. "I'm quickly getting a new drink," he announced, "can I get you something as well?"

Grantaire shrugged: "You pick. I don't care." 

"Alrighty." Courfeyrac stepped out the door for a moment and soon came back with two glasses. One of them was a clear drink with a lime, and the other was some weird green concoction, with ice and a sugared brim. If anything, it wasn't something Grantaire had ever seen, and as he Courfeyrac gently placed it in front of him, he decided to ask: "What the hell is that?"

Courfeyrac shrugged and snickered. "Musichetta's special, I can't tell you what that entails though." He egged Grantaire on: "C'mon, try it at least."

It didn't look good, but Grantaire didn't care and almost immediately took a big sip from Musichetta's special. It tasted bitter with a sour, lemony hint. He cringed at the intense taste and couldn't help but cough. "Christ," he hampered out between coughs, and he set the drink down. "That's intense."

When he said that, Courfeyrac giggled and took a sip of his drink, almost as if he wanted to show Grantaire how content he was with his. "Yeah, it's not my cup of tea, either, but as a member of Les Amis, you have to drink it at least once."

For a moment, Grantaire wondered what else he and Courfeyrac could talk about, and as if on cue, Courfeyrac casually said: "So, now that Enjolras is here, and from the way you looked at him, I think now is a better time than ever to talk about you two, and settling your scores." Whilst talking he drew his finger across the rim of his glass.

And there it was. The inevitable subject. Without looking at Courfeyrac, Grantaire quickly made up an excuse: "I was thinking about talking to him after the meeting, when everyone's hopefully doing something else." After some drinks, he should be able to pull it off, as long as there weren't others around. It was already embarrassing enough to admit defeat once again.

If he had to interpret the lazy sigh from Courfeyrac, he could only conclude he was somehow doing something wrong.

"Why not do it now?" he asked.

"It'll get rushed and useless," Grantaire quickly thought of other good reasons, but couldn't get compelling ones that quick. Courfeyrac still considered it briefly, but then shook his head: "Trust me, Enj is going to do a briefing about the meeting for the rest of the night. With anyone willing to listen to him. Now, there's no eavesdroppers, you know?"

 _Fair point_ , Grantaire thought, but he didn't say it out loud. "I can't do it now," he mumbled, "I don't know, okay?" For some reason the mere thought of having to confront Enjolras made him feel uneasy. 

Courfeyrac huffed. "That's weak, and frankly, I think it's not so much about strategy on your part," he shrugged. 

Grantaire wondered what Courfeyrac meant with that comment, and so he asked: "And what do you think is the reason, then?" He put his chin in his hand and leaned his elbow on the table, bowing forward in the process. 

Courfeyrac bent forward a bit as well, so that their faces were twice as close as a table would allow. He stared Grantaire in the eyes and when they had stale eye contact, he started: 

"You're acting like you have to go to a teacher to hand in an unfinished project. And if you don't know what I mean, I'm saying this: you're afraid of Enjolras, he's making you nervous, isn't he? I don't know why, and neither do you, but it's getting to you, and now you're trying to postpone your chat with Enj." 

As if on autopilot, Grantaire let out an unbelieving laugh, but on the inside he was nearly panicking from how well Courfeyrac could see what he himself didn't even notice properly. What had happened between him and the leader in red didn't sit right with him, but nothing was as bad as this feeling of danger that came over him at the thought of confronting Enjolras.

But Courfeyrac shouldn't know that. So he kept on laughing in a ridiculous tone and shook his head. "Please Courf," he wailed in an overly-dramatic voice, "I know I'm an emotional wreck, but I've passed the age that angry SJW's like Apollo scare me, I've grown up." He grinned at Courfeyrac and rolled his eyes to emphasise just how stupid Courfeyrac was for nearly entirely correctly reading Grantaire.  _God,let it be convincing enough._

It wasn't per se that Grantaire was scared of Enjolras. The word he liked most to describe it, was wariness. Those eyes always on him, they put him on edge, to say the least. But the worst was that Grantaire could never decide whether those eyes did or didn't trust him, and that gnawed at him, because he never knew how he was doing. Sometimes, there wasn't just contempt shining in Apollo's gaze. 

 _Only Sometimes_ , he reminded himself. 

With that, he snapped out of his thought, and refocussed on Courfeyrac. When he did, Courfeyrac's eyes were gleaming and he had a smirk plastered on his face. "Apollo?" he asked, and his voice had a high pitch to it, sounding profoundly innocent. 

 _Oh shit_.

Had he really used Apollo? That had not been his plan, and as the silence and Courfeyrac's smirk stretched second by second, he knew that this could only be embarrassing for him.  _Brace yourself for Courfeyrac being his truest self._

"Yeah, it's sort of an, ehm, nickname for him?" He ended up phrasing it as a question, and he mentally palmed himself for it. Since when was one wine and a sip of something enough to make him braindead? He had to think of a good explanation, and fast. "So okay," he started, "I couldn't remember his name at first." That was a lie, of course; Grantaire had known that name as soon as he'd heard it, because it matched the angelic appearance. "And he reminded me of Apollo. You know," he added lamely, "with the hair and all..." He trailed off, and gestured to his own hair, a black mess of knots and unruly curls, as if it compared at all. 

Courfeyrac smirked at him with raised eyebrows and he purred: "Interesting." 

At that moment, Grantaire's body betrayed him, because the blood rushed to his cheeks. When he noticed, he let out a string of curses and tried to cover his blush with his one free hand, which only resulted in Courfeyrac cracking up more. And just as Grantaire wanted to somehow save himself, a lock turned behind him. 

He was instantly looked over his shoulder. No one could hear this, especially Enjolras. And there was a sizable chance that Enjolras was the one opening the door. Luckily, it was Combeferre, and Grantaire didn't see anything that suggested he'd heard what had been said. He called out: "Courf, can you come for a second?" 

"I told you," Courfeyrac answered smugly, winking at Grantaire, "I'll come when the others-"

"It's pretty important," Combeferre interrupted him. Grantaire watched Combeferre stare Courfeyrac down and felt pretty awkward at the situation. He was just about to say that he could be alone for a couple of minutes, but then he noticed something: Combeferre's eyes darted sideways, to him. Briefly, but not brief enough to miss. He quirked an eyebrow at Combeferre, but he had already returned his gaze to Courfeyrac with the same urgent glare.

Courfeyrac was confused, Grantaire noticed, but after a bit too long he politely smiled and turned to Grantaire. "Sorry," he said, "I'm sure the others will be here any moment now. Don't get mad at me," he grinned. As he stood up, Grantaire rolled his eyes and sarcastically answered: "Breaks my heart." The only reply he got from Courfeyrac was a tsk and the remainder of Courfeyrac's drink slid over to him. Together with Combeferre he walked out the door, but not before turning around one last time to wave at Grantaire. Grantaire watched the door fall in its lock, and there he was. 

Now that he was left wondering what to do, Grantaire carefully took a sip of Courfeyrac's drink. It was transparent and as soon as it hit his tongue he recognised it: gin tonic. That was a pleasant surprise; he had expected Courfeyrac to be a fan of hellishly strong drinks or something that was too sweet, too sour or too bitter. Gin tonic, however, was his favourite drink, and he easily kept on drinking it. In the meantime, he dug up his phone and scrolled through the messages sent in the chat. He skimmed them, but the mere thought of reading them made him feel tired and wonder how he even managed to spend hours on his phone as a teenager, so instead he took some photos of the room and played around with the filters a bit, making the room warmer, more accentuated or contoured. It ended up keeping him busy quite well, and together with Courfeyrac's gin tonic he managed to entertain himself enough. 

Back in the days, before everything went to shit, it was pretty much the only thing he drank. Gin tonics were easy to make and his parents also liked them, so through the years it became the standard drink in the weekend. When Grantaire ended up at the bar of the Patron-Minette, he'd never ordered it again. The memories attached to the bitter-sweet taste were too precious.

_If only you hadn't been so stupid_

The thought left him hollow, and he downed Courfeyrac's drink as quick as he could. 

Just as he did that, the door to the backroom opened up again.  

"Well, that's a great sign," Feuilly dryly stated, "the meeting's not even started and you're already drinking alone."

Grantaire scoffed at him in mock-offence, but Joly slid right into the seat next to him, conspicuously eyed his -or actually Courfeyrac's- drink and smelled the glass. When he put it down again, his disappointment was unblemished on his face: "I told you not to drink anything!" Grantaire smiled and rolled his eyes mockingly. "What are you, my mom?" He put force behind his words by leaning back in his chair. "Besides, it's Courf's. I've only had one drink so far."

All he got in return was Joly shaking his head. "No drinks, none! Alcohol slows down pretty much every part of the healing process, you know?" And Bossuet, who was standing behind Joly by now, added: "And you're gonna bump into things as well, fucking up your shoulder even more."

"Christ, he's had one drink," Feuilly snickered, "calm down you guys. He'll keep it on one drink and everything will be fine." And he cast a firm glance at Grantaire.

"Exactly," Grantaire finger-gunned Feuilly. Joly, of course, did not look convinced, but mumbled: "Well, okay, just one drink." 

 _No chance in a million years_. But Grantaire smiled and nodded. "Don't worry, I'll behave." In order to make sure Joly wouldn't laugh at him in his face, he added: "I'm old enough to drink responsibly." 

"Your first night in Musain is telling the opposite," Joly cynically answered. Feuilly and Bossuet both burst into laughter, probably at the memory of something Grantaire had forgotten... somehow. He yelled: "I was nervous then! Won't happen again." 

Whether Joly was convinced or not, he gave up when Bossuet nudged him in the side and said: "I'm getting a drink, and see Chetta." He smiled at the name. "Want me to get you something?" Joly thought for a moment, and said: "Maybe a shandy or something, please? Just nothing too sweet."

Bossuet nodded and as he turned around, Feuilly followed him, saying he was going to get a beer. He turned around to Grantaire and teasingly asked Grantaire: "Should I take something along for you? A cup of tea perhaps?" Grantaire flipped him off, and Feuilly went laughing. As his laughter faded into the sounds of the main café, Grantaire scoffed: "What an asshole."

Joly laughed at him and answered: "You're just an alcoholic."

"You're only saying that because you're holier than thou and don't drink for some reason," Grantaire deadpanned.

Joly shook his head and shrugged. "Well, I just don't like the taste of it, plus I don't wanna get Alzheimer's when I'm forty, like my grandma."

Grantaire had prepared a snarky response, but when Joly said those words, the answer vanished, and he could only blankly answer 'aha', because he didn't know for sure if Joly was joking and he sure as hell wasn't going to risk laughing at this. All he hoped for was that Bossuet or Feuilly came back in right now, but nothing happened. "I get that."

Luckily, Joly chose to brush it aside. He grinned and said: "Do you?" He tapped his fingers on the table. "Because you don't seem to care about your brains all that much." 

 _Well, he's on a role tonight._ Was this the day everyone was going to mock him constantly? Grantaire rolled his eyes and bristled: "Alright alright, you win, I'm a drunkard. Alzheimer's when I turn thirty, okay?" He wasn't annoyed yet, but it was better not to get much closer to it.

Joly snorted and threw up his hands. "Okay, I'll stop. Didn't know you were in a bad mood." He stretched in his chair as if he was saying  _it's your brain after all_. And Grantaire was pretty sure he was going to say that, but to his luck Feuilly came back walking in at that moment, beer in hand. He sat himself down at their table and said: "Hey, hope you don't mind, but Courfeyrac just asked me if I could tell Grantaire that he had to come to the three of them. Also, the meeting is a bit delayed; they want to start as soon as Eponine and those guys are here."

"Huh?" Grantaire could not say it any other way: he was throw off guard a bit. What the hell did they want him to do? Joly apparently also wanted to know, because he asked: "What for?" He also looked at Grantaire questioningly, but Grantaire could only shake his head at him: he was equally surprised.

Feuilly shrugged: "No idea, all he said was that he wanted you to come." He looked at Grantaire. "They're on the first floor, first room right."

On one hand he was curious, on the other a bit alarmed. However, there really wasn't much Grantaire could do. He stood up from the table and picked up Courfeyrac's empty drink -might as well put that on the bar- before turning around. He swore he could feel eyes drilling holes into his back while he walked out the door into the café. Joly, wondering what was going on. As if he had any idea. He remembered Combeferre quickly looking at him; this was probably connected in some way.

The café was already getting a bit crowded and Musichetta was having a busy moment at the bar while other servers walked around with trays (which were mostly filled with glasses) and menu's, so he only set the glass on the bar. Despite the busy evening Musichetta was talking with Bossuet while she mixed drinks and opened and closed the taps. Bossuet didn't look like he would return to the backroom anytime soon. Grantaire crossed the café and tried to ignore the feeling that everyone was looking at him, but he was relieved nonetheless when he walked up the stairs and disappeared from view. For not having done anything wrong, he felt painfully illegal. He could feel his pulse in his head, like the beginning of a headache. It wasn't surprising that he felt paranoid that they somehow found out about him. And when he stood in front of the door, he was nervously considering knocking or just waiting a bit longer. 

He was nearly ready to open the door when it swung open, a move which made him jump back in reflex. It felt like he'd been spying and was caught. In the doorframe stood Courfeyrac. He had his hand on the doorknob and looked annoyed, but when he saw Grantaire, he instantly smiled and said: "Ah, lovely of you to come. We were wondering when you would." He took Grantaire's hand without a moment of hesitation and said: "Come in." Grantaire let himself be pulled into the room. 

As Courfeyrac shut the door behind them, he announced: "Here he is!" Grantaire looked around in the bedroom. Enjolras was sitting on the writing desk standing against the wall, Combeferre stood next to him. He awkwardly shuffled into the room, feeling like he wasn't able to speak at all. Enjolras eyed him for a moment or so, but then, he relaxed and pushed himself off the table. With his hands stuffed the pockets of his jumper, he started without so much as a greeting; he turned to Grantaire and said: "So, Combeferre, Courfeyrac and me asked you to come here because there's something we need to discuss." Grantaire waited for an explanation, but Enjolras kept quiet and kept looking at him, like he was waiting for a sign to continue. 

"Well," Grantaire answered in an encouraging tone. He tried to sound teasing, but the truth was that he was filled with curiosity.

"My father rang me just now. He wanted to see me again, to talk about my 'studies'." Enjolras made quotation marks with his fingers. "But, there's more to it." 

He continued: "My father and mother are in high function at the Alstom office here in Paris, and since they both have connections in the business world, they told me they want me to meet some of their partners. And at least one of them is high-ranking at La Société Générale. It would be quite an opportunity to get a look from their perspective, see what they think, what they plan on doing, maybe even discover some hard evidence of the corruption within their company, or any other for that matter."

"Well, okay, and what does that have to do with me?" Grantaire asked sceptically. He was sure one thing would lead to the next, but Enjolras wasn't making things all that clear. Unless he wanted to tell Grantaire about how rich his parents were or something, and Grantaire highly doubted that, there was no explanation so far. 

He looked around the room, waiting for an explanation. Eventually, it was Combeferre who gave him one: "We've discussed it, and considering everything, it would be wise to have someone go with Enjolras. Several corporations have already received threats from other groups, one company even cancelled an emergency meeting because of those." Courfeyrac also spoke up: "We need to be prepared for suprise attacks; three weeks is a long time, every gang in Paris will find out about this meeting."

In the silence that followed Grantaire took in what he'd been told. Enjolras had to go to some business meeting with his parents and he wasn't going alone. He had been summoned here, and no one else. He'd seen Combeferre look at him...

He could see where this was going.

He waited for Enjolras to say something, but Enjolras kept quiet and avoided the eye contact Grantaire tried to make. It couldn't be incidental, and Grantaire angrily persisted trying to make eye contact. And he didn't stop until Courfeyrac had to confirm his suspicions. 

"R, we think you're most suited for it."

And there it was.  _At least he has to guts to tell me_ , Grantaire thought, and stopped his attempts at locking eyes with Enjolras in favour of turning them on Courfeyrac. With that one-word question on his lips: _Why?_  

But Courfeyrac didn't budge. He was not the goofy Courfeyrac right now; he was the assertive Courfeyrac, one of Les Amis' leaders. 

Grantaire stared from Courfeyrac to Enjolras to Combeferre, and then dryly chuckled. "Am I most suited, yeah?" he sarcastically rephrased, "on what basis?" He quirked his eyebrows automatically, a habit he'd never managed to quit, and shook his head a bit.

And finally, Enjolras' eyes shot up to look at him. "Well, in case of an attack, it's best to have the most skilled gunman along. That's you, so it's only natural you would be the best option."

"I'm a  _sniper_ , that has nothing to do with close-range combat," Grantaire deflated. "Besides"- whilst saying this he lifted his arm-"this won't be ready to shoot in three weeks."

Enjolras shook his head: "As if you can't hit at close-range. We all saw you shoot on your first day. You can hit anything." There was a hint of admiration in his voice, and Grantaire couldn't deny that it felt good. But of course, that didn't change that these three had selected him -and they'd selected him without any consideration for him- for something he wasn't willing to do or ready for. So he tried again to prove Enjolras wrong on the decision they made: "Not with my right hand. I'd barely hit a fucking wall!" Adding hyperbole had to do the trick. 

Sadly, Combeferre had an explanation ready, of course: "I've asked Joly about it, but he says you were rather lucky with the shot; there is hardly any permanent damage, and he thought it'd probably heal soon."

If there was anything going through Grantaire at that moment, it was unpleasant surprise, and he scoffed in disbelief: "And it didn't occur to you to discuss this with me as well, instead of just giving me a task without a second thought?" 

Apparently, his reaction was a surprise too, because Courfeyrac, Combeferre and Enjolras stared each other down with a look that said 'what do we do now?', even Courfeyrac this time. Grantaire waited for someone to explain it to him. For one person, to be precise. 

Enjolras must've noticed him staring, because he changed his gaze from Combeferre to Grantaire and straightened his shoulder, instantly gaining size. Grantaire already felt slightly intimidated, but braced himself. He wasn't going to let something as stupid as size have impact on him. At least Enjolras had the manners not to walk forward and size up with Grantaire. 

He sighed and kept looking at Grantaire as he spoke: "I've only known this for an hour, there was no time to tell you," he explained, "and if your arm doesn't heal fast enough we'll have to think of something else, but if we didn't select our best shooter here, we would be stupid." He took a breath, and then continued: "There is a good chance of an attack now that the media is giving the LSG heist so much attention. All companies are in turmoil, and it's the best time to attack for gangs." 

There was truth in that. Grantaire had to admit that if they were telling the truth, they had a fair point. Still, it didn't sit right with him. How was he going to blend in at these kind of occasions, especially while he carried a gun. And he'd never been to stuff like this. Even when he still lived with his parents, he couldn't care less about business or economy. Didn't it occur to any of them that there was a major difference between them and him, someone who they thought came from the working class?

There was also a small voice nagging him, repeating over and over _he only cares because his parents will be there_. Grantaire knew it wasn't true and that it was just a part of his mind he really wasn't proud of, but it was enough to keep him very diffident. 

"But do we really need to know their perspective?" he questioned, "Is that crucial?" He wondered why he was doing this, because one thing was very clear: Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac hadn't fully realised a plan yet, but they were definitely decided on the basics. Enjolras had to go, someone had to go with him, and Grantaire was well aware that he was the most logical option. Besides, with Enjolras' parents there, Grantaire wasn't expecting Enjolras to give in when he suspected an attack. It was an extra catalyst which probably made the three men in front of him even more determined. And could he really blame them for that?

After all, he was guilty of that more than anyone. Everything he'd done in the name of Patron-Minette, had been for either his sake or the sake of his parents. 

He looked at Enjolras, and tried to put himself in his shoes: right in the middle of a crisis, with stray attacks all around the city, getting a call from your parents, telling you that they were planning a meeting. Enjolras, despite looking like it at times, didn't have a heart of ice. Grantaire was sure that, despite the actions that seemed to dismiss it, Enjolras cared about others, the people. And family was off limits. Grantaire knew that better than anyone. He felt a light buzzing starting in his head.

"But how am I going to 'blend in'? I don't know anything about business," he slightly protested. 

"We'll have to figure that out later," Courfeyrac answered. "And as for how important their perspective is; we need to know what impact we have, and adapt our actions to it. If our heist didn't affect La Société Générale, we know that we have to make up a new course of action."

Grantaire was about to ask him what that meant -blowing up more banks if they had their results? Stopping offensive moves altogether and not doing anything anymore? Anything in between, or something outside of those two boundaries?- but just as he was about to ask it, the door behind him burst open. Grantaire flinched. Harshly. He felt a short spark flash through his stomach. Adrenaline, preparing him for a fight. Without any input of his own, he flew around and was on his front feet as if he was about to run. 

As it turned out, he had no need to be ready to fight, as pretty much always. Because Bahorel came in through the door. "Hey guys," he started with a big smile on his face. "Eponine, Cosette and Marius are here, so we can start the meeting if you're ready." Apparently, he didn't notice how Grantaire leaped ten feet into the air. Grantaire took a deep breath and tried to pull himself together before anyone started asking the wrong questions. Bahorel saw him, and he cheerfully asked: "R, I heard you were here, but I'm wondering; why? Usually, they keep their little plans between the three of them." He walked forward and leaned his elbow on Grantaire's shoulder. And even though Grantaire was used to it by now with his limited height, it still felt degrading, and he shrugged it off with a scoff: "Stop it!" he laughed at Bahorel. "And I think we're ready to start, aren't we?" He looked at the other three: "Right?"

Combeferre cleared his throat and pushed himself on his feet. "Yeah, we're ready for as far as I think." He turned to Enjolras. "Right," he added. 

Enjolras nodded at him. He walked forward towards the door, but right before he passed it he turned sideways to Grantaire. Grantaire saw how Enjolras looked at him sceptically, and just as he was about to walk on, Enjolras asked him: "Are you okay?"

It was a simple question, but those three words alarmed Grantaire, and he also turned to Enjolras instead of looking at him from the corners of his eyes. He nervously stared back at Enjolras. Enjolras took a look at him, then his eyes dropped. Grantaire followed his gaze, and it was only then that he saw his arms shaking.

He also noticed that it had gone quiet in the room, so he looked up. Bahorel was looking at him now as well, standing in the corridor. He had his upper body turned to him and Enjolras and his lower body to the stairs, but he was standing still and anxiously watching what was happening. Courfeyrac was looking pretty concerned and stayed at a distance, next to Combeferre. Grantaire had seen enough.

He looked down at his arms again, took a breath and tried to relax. His arms stopped shaking. Triumphantly, he looked up at Enjolras again. He feigned a smile and sighed: "Yeah, fine." He took a step back to put some distance between him and Enjolras and turned back to the door. "Let's go to the meeting," he said. 

Right before he walked through the door, one last thing he had to say came up in his head. He turned his upper body around to face Enjolras. Enjolras stopped in his tracks. He watched Grantaire, waiting.

Grantaire wasn't sure whether he was doing something smart, but he continued anyway: "I'll do it." 

That was all he said before he turned around and followed Bahorel. He'd said it now, and all that was left to do was hope that he wouldn't regret his words. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that took forever. I'm sorry :( really don't know what happened. Hope you liked this chapter. Also apparently a shandy is an alcoholic drink but without alcohol and i've never heard that word before so im not sure if that's just a weird word you only learn at english class but i thougt whatever it works.


End file.
